Only one amongst God’s chosen
chose, himself, to heed the call
of battle and of righteousness,
to do his duty to his people, free them
of the monster’s wrath,
and return the blackened, accurséd land
to its once-proud state
of golden status, of white-stained virtue;
as God’s right Hand,
he took with him two handfuls’ counting—
of his best and bravest, strongest men—
and made his leave, heading South
with all intent for a final slewing—
for Bad blood shed in the name of God—
in the blackened pits of the monster’s den.
From the tar-pits and blood-stained caverns
emerged our Hero’s fright’ning foe:
a Hellhound sick with rage and sin,
made mad by greed for human flesh—
its life a constant stream of pain, of angst
and anguish everlasting, and—as such—
was Heaven-bent, and ever-questing
God’s forgiveness, He who murdered
a thousand men.
Hell let loose its wildest furies,
raging about and through the fiend,
and our brave warrior, with his men,
charged the barbed, malevolent beast.
Serrated jaws and wide-swept maw
gorged upon the frightened men,
chose, himself, to heed the call
of battle and of righteousness,
to do his duty to his people, free them
of the monster’s wrath,
and return the blackened, accurséd land
to its once-proud state
of golden status, of white-stained virtue;
as God’s right Hand,
he took with him two handfuls’ counting—
of his best and bravest, strongest men—
and made his leave, heading South
with all intent for a final slewing—
for Bad blood shed in the name of God—
in the blackened pits of the monster’s den.
From the tar-pits and blood-stained caverns
emerged our Hero’s fright’ning foe:
a Hellhound sick with rage and sin,
made mad by greed for human flesh—
its life a constant stream of pain, of angst
and anguish everlasting, and—as such—
was Heaven-bent, and ever-questing
God’s forgiveness, He who murdered
a thousand men.
Hell let loose its wildest furies,
raging about and through the fiend,
and our brave warrior, with his men,
charged the barbed, malevolent beast.
Serrated jaws and wide-swept maw
gorged upon the frightened men,
and our lone Hero, seasoned warrior—
with sword in hand and heart hell-bent—
collided with the spinéd monster.
Sinews strained, blades rankled,
wrangled and flashed in the noon-day sun,
cold with greed and deep-running sin,
God’s hate for the hellhound-kin
who drove our Hero’s men to madness,
to untimely death and despairing demise.
With no hope left but that of God—
abandoned by his men and brethren—
the warrior struck his final blow,
the strength of our Almighty
behind him: flowing through, about
and inside him. In two swift strokes
its life was spent, accurséd hell-head
cleanly hewn from body condemned,
from soul long-gone from absolution;
from days of repent.
The monster went
to fiery flayme. The land was wracked with shudders and quakes,
and our lone warrior—strong and brave,
proud and true and clutching his stave,
shining o'er lands God-graced, newly-lit by His bright sun—
banished the hell-hound to its grave,
and with its hell-tail ‘twixt its legs,
so it went, and was no more; forever-gone
from Heaven’s door, no more to encroach
upon the moor.
And as to our warrior—King of knaves—
so too was his own self bereaved
of all carnal desire and pain;
spent was his life, soul soon free
from worries banal and inane;
to the Kingdom of God
he would ascend.
And though his fingers felt the sting of Winter,
his Heart did not—and was content.
Hues and mem’ries of cold still lingered;
bodies lay broken, weapons bent.
Amongst his Loyal arose such din—
of sorrow fresh, for life so spent—
for their one true King, the One
True martyr whose heroic death
was embodied in full, in ev’ry wail
of grievous pain, of woe o’erwhelming;
caustic lament.
with sword in hand and heart hell-bent—
collided with the spinéd monster.
Sinews strained, blades rankled,
wrangled and flashed in the noon-day sun,
cold with greed and deep-running sin,
God’s hate for the hellhound-kin
who drove our Hero’s men to madness,
to untimely death and despairing demise.
With no hope left but that of God—
abandoned by his men and brethren—
the warrior struck his final blow,
the strength of our Almighty
behind him: flowing through, about
and inside him. In two swift strokes
its life was spent, accurséd hell-head
cleanly hewn from body condemned,
from soul long-gone from absolution;
from days of repent.
The monster went
to fiery flayme. The land was wracked with shudders and quakes,
and our lone warrior—strong and brave,
proud and true and clutching his stave,
shining o'er lands God-graced, newly-lit by His bright sun—
banished the hell-hound to its grave,
and with its hell-tail ‘twixt its legs,
so it went, and was no more; forever-gone
from Heaven’s door, no more to encroach
upon the moor.
And as to our warrior—King of knaves—
so too was his own self bereaved
of all carnal desire and pain;
spent was his life, soul soon free
from worries banal and inane;
to the Kingdom of God
he would ascend.
And though his fingers felt the sting of Winter,
his Heart did not—and was content.
Hues and mem’ries of cold still lingered;
bodies lay broken, weapons bent.
Amongst his Loyal arose such din—
of sorrow fresh, for life so spent—
for their one true King, the One
True martyr whose heroic death
was embodied in full, in ev’ry wail
of grievous pain, of woe o’erwhelming;
caustic lament.
