“Mad and violent; bitterness mistook for frolic, I fought my way by literature and wit.” -Lewis.
O my soul, say you will not wail.
Though I pierce Him every day,
Say the sky will not break,
That there be no longer a shiver up my spine,
His feet brass burned in a furnace,
His voice rushing water,
The seven stars in His right hand.
The sword of His mouth sharper than any two edged sword,
Piercing even to the dividing of soul and spirit.
The sun will shine in His strength.
Do not look upon me,
Just let me ascend.