The coming of the son,
over the horizon a sunset
compromises the only one.

Bloodprints, engraved
within the dampened ground
to whom no man can claim.

No such flesh, none
of mortal tangibility
reaps the sunset as he.

The dying of the sun,
the rising of the son
come hither, restore me.

Benevolence beyond
boisterous savor, a
savoir has been received.

Incessant light, plights
of the unforgiven scream
as dimmed hope fades.

The cynical and crude
lavish in disbelief, like
children fighting sleep.

"Ye Children!", his words
seep like diamonds upon
the hands of those to keep.

Rejoice for thy father
has fufilled, a promise long
ago, so stifiling and tranquil.

Angels ascend and sing!
For thy prophesy is upon,
all those akin to the holy king.