At the threshold of our waking hour

In darkest hour before morning light
The sightless mind sees,
The silent tongue speaks,
Of what lies beyond shrouded night

Shall heaving tides surge ‘gainst sea walls,
The briny blackness to blind our eyes?
In thunderous roll will we hear His call
As our shaking spirits search the skies?

Or shall knelling bells resound again,
In deepest darkness to be heard once more?
Will wicked words welcome ruin
And the sundered soul succumb to the cannons’ roar?

For the angelic verse begins to wane,
And the feeble God falters in his fane.
So we ask, are our prayers all in vain?
And what then of our suffering, our pain?

When the wind has sung its final song,
When the mountains have crumbled and the stones cry,
When all that is has been and gone,
When the sky is black and the sun has died

Only then we’ll wake to see our wrong,
And know we’ve slept far too long.
For false things we did vie,
For false gods we now die.