And when the deadly presence came, and laid out how we were to blame, I think you fair, I think you just, to sprinkle on your ash and dust, yet here I stand, ready for fire, already burning with desire, wishing I was a better son, or my rebellion could be won.
The light will spare the lowly soul, but mine shall toss into a hole that knows no end of depth—that hell, shall over me its darkness swell. Remember then, if mercy’s true, to pray that I become as you. If I could break, my soul He’d take.
Tale Told 