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bloodied hands, little lamb,
night without morning,
in the middle of the court.

feed the goats, watch them boast,
but blood and water,
fall - yes, let it pour.

a cup of wrath, delivery at last,
the keys are rattling,
the captives are led forth!

sip of soured wine, fulfill the time,
prophet, priest and king forsaken,
and only a crown of thorns.

sheol, no! grave, let go!
the serpent's head is crushed,
beneath the holy heel of scorn!

Lion of the tribe, within the pride,
there is said, 'Holy, holy holy,'
the purpose we were formed.

By southernblood

© 2017 southernblood (All rights reserved)

 

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