The flesh of God is His own very wordthe bones underneath the skin are mild but true
to the load upon which they take the throne
drips from sacrifice of God to man.
We cannot bow earlier than it, too pooled
too blood-purple from the dam of tears
and blood poured for you.
The seventh angel spreads its wings
The prophecy is that flesh unhindered
comes back into its personal self. But truth
is relevant to the Son of God.
Those days of sin for man are gone.
Clemency is everyone. Marked as twos; then cleft
twain to explode His gentle inside, we're
the youngsters of the life. He's
the reality that dwelt upon the seas
of Socrates, Euripides,
Father God, quelled the storm,
spoke against the norm.
Prophecy fleshed sits upon the bones and broods
like a hen upon her solely nest. Her signal
is she is about to be blessed with the reward
which she is going to market to the world. "I am
feathered from the seas of human thought
although of human I'm not--though
of dark's castration I am
the recreation of an oldest faction/operate."
Her glow pours forth
from the lump beneath her abdomen's
flesh is what warms the very side of her.
Honor is extra
than a Knight's Tale dragging on
and on and more on and more on and more.
The child of God sits upon the throne and watches
The rose is earlier than Him although He units
it on a saucer. He thinks it seems to be similar to a monkey
wading through the sea of desert
sand so fast to say, "This thus! I'm night!"
Appears like the monkey's toes are wiggling
the actions of the man.
Honor is extra.
You'll be able to say you've got discovered all fact
after which believe in Chaucer.
And He lays it on the saucer, all even
Boethius' scattered brains. "Will this
heal your lame, walk your sick
from the gloominess of their graves?"
And the rose is cut up seven alternative ways
to be taken with the blood of communion.
"Give it a attempt once more. How a lot
Shakespeare do I received to ship you? How many
Napoleons should rend you? How many
Poets should abhor you; earlier than you see
these items aren't for you?"
And the goat is pit; the Rose placed
upon the altar for the sacrifice
has been already laid and killed and bruised
and maimed for humankind.
"Simply one other chunk of Him to let my day
unwind a bit bit--watch the times
violence repeatedly and again."
Prophecy fleshed seems down upon her young.
The serpent's spitting tongue is moist
upon the fence exterior the solar, light
dripping throughout. "I i i i i m m m u s s s s t t t
a i i i m f f f o r r the pinnacle t h i i i s s s s t i m m e,"
The feeding trough smells of watermelon wine,
dandy lions, seeds of turnips, greens. And the Track
the serpent sings is solely to himself--
"all that wealth, not a penny of it mine,
I need to goal for the pinnacle this time."
The Ram is cut upon the alter.
Priest gives for the snake what was the vine's.
"Come around for extra anytime," she says.
"I will. And faster next time." says the snake
"However I require alabaster, cinnamon, and pearls.
All you gave to Him swirls before me
in a tottered rage. You have to please me freely."
And on the farm the priest denies
that he has despised the fallacious one.
narcissism opens up the chasm
and we fall right in its gory chasm.
But prophecy fleshed sees not but loss of life
as it by means of fence holes, garden flees
with its personal chick upon it's back
the crucifying of the freed. "It is not right,"
says the wily serpent. "supposed to stay
around. I demand worship. Can't
you see I've come out the grass?
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