The Liar

Oh stain me with your grace again, you must.

A sad’ning dirge has stacked my mind with pyre,

and lest this young man turneth into dust,

You must again remind him of the liar.

He comes in hand with arrows, only two.

The first tempts me use grace as if no cost.

And when he sees I’ve taken of the stew,

He pleads me to believe my birthright lost.

And guilt like fire invades my lonesome soul,

While here I pace in hatred of this war.

The avenue ‘tween earth and there unrolls,

“Will you stain me with grace again once more?”

I know tis true your hand on me will stay,

My only hope, you lead me from the fray.