Sick of the world-
Its traces in me
Weary of the wickedness in my veins
The serving of it's wanton lusts
The gathering of its broken will
Waterless cisterns of modernity
Lawyers and brokers of it's incipient ill
Tired of striving
But my striving is not without gain
Longing for the edge of tomorrow,
To pry it open and take spoil of its pain
To climb up and cast down
To improve and make sound
To export the import
Of the canons' blast found in every exhort!
To proclaim, to exult and make plain...
The word of the message made ready, unfurled:
The grace that's set against the grave of the condemned world.
Its traces in me
Weary of the wickedness in my veins
The serving of it's wanton lusts
The gathering of its broken will
Waterless cisterns of modernity
Lawyers and brokers of it's incipient ill
Tired of striving
But my striving is not without gain
Longing for the edge of tomorrow,
To pry it open and take spoil of its pain
To climb up and cast down
To improve and make sound
To export the import
Of the canons' blast found in every exhort!
To proclaim, to exult and make plain...
The word of the message made ready, unfurled:
The grace that's set against the grave of the condemned world.
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