Floods of brokenness drown them; minds of deceit lead them farther from me.

Words spoken of the serpent, temptations shall not overrule the ways of my
father.

And I will die at his hand, to save my sheep, purest is the heart of this
shepherd.

Thy will shall be done, but not like this Father. To my end I come, to
eternity's beginning.

No crown of gold bejeweled with diamonds worthy of a King.

But a crown of thorns, morbidly jeweled with the decaying blood of a
savior.

Nails pierce my flesh, a test of my faith. Father, I will not fail.

And I chose my death, saving a voice for the weak. But unto them all is
lost.

For an army of Satan's spawn rests at my feet, and still, I love them.

What death is this, when holes of sorrow are burnt upon my soul, a barter
for my assassin's salvation?

Yet, what life did I know? Denial and accusations swamped me. Satanic ways
took the lives of my children.

It was torture unfit for Satan himself. Yet, all of this I endured
passively, And still, I forgave.

Condemned, I watched my own blood drip down over my arms, flowing in its
irreversible path.

But I had not known pain. I had not known humility. Slowly, agonizingly,
scarlet tongues flickered around my body, claimed it for the dead.

"Father," I raged, "why have you forsaken me?" When my faith bled as a
wound?

So it is here I suffered, wasting away slowly, rotting on wood, praying for
my death to pass.

As I shook with tears and the unfairness of it all, I wept, held fast in the
arms of my Father.
 
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