Being another foray into the alliteration and assonance characteristic of Anglo-Saxon poetry.
“Of all men most pitied,” mouth the mockers.
“Fatuous fools falling for feeble fables,
Pathetically plodding on parched platitudes.”
O highest honor! – to be hated by His haters.
Past time the piecemeal portrait in prophecy,
Shadowy sillouette shining, shaded in black and white.
Holy dove hovering, wisdom waiting, hope held in hand.
But in the Penultimate Now the Potent Presence possessing!
Living Light held and holding the hope of Heaven
Living Love walking with us on the Way of Wonder
Living Word abiding, on the wings of Wind we’re riding
Drawn into the dawning Day of His delight.