At the edge of morning ,
Kept are all voices at rest.
The worthy rises to break the air,
Set things in motion as they used to be .
In throttling fears of drowning low,
Of passing into the world of shadow,
Crept by the illusion of riches and pride,
He stands still, the warrior of good-
With smell of earth , and debt of heart.
Forgiven days of past are endured,
Leaving the scars unhealed within.
Ignored all deeds stand;
Favor is not the nature of Man,
However good or bad.
In light they move,
Seeking the yesteryear’s chance
Of reclaiming the truth of life,
Still wrapped, still dark.
Grace is a mystery,
In devising his master-plan.
All sorrow swept beneath the stars,
For heaven to spark the survival wars.