Narrowly avoiding the tip of the lance
With the devil did he dance
Two left feet, one right hand
Feigning insanity in a foreign land
A giant fell, a story yet to tell
After his heart, before his throne
Through his countenance glory shown
** **
From the bosom of Ruth was he brought
Through the utterance of truth his lineage is sought
The mighty psalmist, to tears was he brought
Bones turn to dust, a victim of lust
No need for despair for the lamb becomes his heir
Perfect was he not, in deed nor thought
Ruddy and red, meek and mild
King and child, solemn and wild
About the Creator
Ethan Ivy
I am the host of the Philosophical Gospel Podcast and an avid student of philosophy and theology.
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The Spring
The sun was high when Lance pulled off the road and into the dusty lot of the service station. The sign back at the hairpin--the first sign in a long time--said they just rolled into Hatter’s Creek, Population 63. It was small enough it didn’t appear on the handmap in Shelby’s lap, yet here it stood, the first backwater township on the fringes of the National Park. The plan was to gas up, restock the snack bag, and press on into the wilderness.
By Zack Graham4 days ago in Fiction
Comments (1)
"Narrowly avoiding the tip of the lance / With the devil did he dance / Two left feet, one right hand / Feigning insanity in a foreign land" These lines are so excellent. I love your meter and the rhyme scheme in this piece. Your language is extremely interesting and compelling. Keep up the good work.