Somehow now I can’t read what once was love,
The pages that evoked a gasp from me,
Like they were sent to my heart from above,
Kindling fire by which all men could see.
Now I begin with ashen heart of stone
And ask to hear one truth that I have not,
That I may partake of some awe unknown,
To breathe the air that, for so long, I’ve sought.
But air’s denied this dying child within
Not because the Savior will not come,
But for the tyrant who forgives no sin,
My own heart for whose own self death does tome.