Speerit's Wordforge

 From whence came grace but upon the toil of His majestic hand. The seat of power and sovereign clarity, salient rivers who brook no doubt. No faithless men to bear the standard, pray that we may do without,   The ravens feasting on those whose wages built houses on the sand

On the eve of silver doubt, A bride stirs in her sleep. Restless visions bar the gate and so she weeps Solace stolen, for death’s last rout. Fortress walls though tall and stout, The winding smoke, they cannot keep Amythyst roiling, sweltering heat, Her nightmares drown her somber shout   Grinding wheels, a sea of sparks The watchmen do not blow their horns On lilac cumulus she embarks “Have nothing to do with him!” she forewarns. But like the cove with hidden shoal, The eve of silver doubt endures, the Savior's amaranthine veil is torn.