I asked the darkness of the Night,
“Be there hope in man’s great might?”
“Nay,” said he, “For there I hover;
When Death is ripe his might I cover.”
Again I asked the Night so blind,
“Be there hope in man’s bright mind?”
“Nay,” said he, “For there I trot;
When Death is ripe his thought I rot.”
A third I asked the Night now stealing,
“Be there hope in man’s best feeling?”
“Nay,” said he, “For there I wake;
When Death is ripe his joys I take.”
I pressed the Night in darkest strife,
“Be there hope in man’s whole life?”
“Nay,” said he, “For there I run;
When Death is ripe then man is done.”
As Night was closing in with greed,
“Be there hope in man’s good deed?”
“Nay,” said he, “For long I stood;
Where has man yet done one good?”
As Night was closing in to sting,
“Be there hope in anything?”
“Yea,” said he, with fearful frame;
“Yet I will never speak His name!”
I grasped the Night’s enclosing hand,
“But you will make me understand!”
“Nay,” said he, “For I have schemes;
Now Death is ripe to dry your streams!”
I screamed against the Night’s foul breath,
“But you will tell me; no! Not Death!”
“Nay,” said he, “I will not heed;
Now Death is ripe; that is my creed!”
I squirmed against enclosing Night
And found the Sword of Truth beside,
And bearing toward his neck so slight,
“Give the name, or you have died!”
I nicked the throat of Night so grim,
“Tell me now the name of him!”
“Mercy!” he, “For I must live;
To Death the souls of men to give!”
I cut him deeply near the heart,
“You must yield, or Death to part!”
“Jesus!” he, and shrank away;
Then Light came forth and Night was Day.
Excellent!!!
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This is awesome
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