Eric Zhao 2024 1 6 https://mustardfox.org/zzhaoe-000K/ zzhaoe-000K /zzhaoe-000K/ Wrath poem Upon God my Wrath was wholly bent A fury that from Eden high He had Men cast and took undue what was Our Own, yet mere Knowing we had durst. 'Twas Doom with which He shackled us, The Doom of men, the Doom of death Whilst sits He on a See Above And beholds us in our withering. Of Gift would those in folly speak Their Doom, in joy tholing their fetters. Sought I the means to quicken anew, To rout this curse by might and main To shape the Earth in images fresh. So far I went to lonesome face And deep to forge new whispers true, The lore to-day and Word to come. By craft arisen to meet His Face— To pluck my Own Fate from Despot fist! A Wrastle for ages untold, sinew Upon sinew, and grasped I the winning At hand, and lo! How grand and vast It was not, but horrid indeed, all The Same, for yet I was, and Falling To grey below and dashed upon the Weight Of Doom, His now lifted, but all my Own. For seen I had death under Conquest, But there is none at all over Death. References Context Backlinks Related Contributions