o majesty

of the sovereign rule

your open palm

you have set over all



power is yours

to crush what you've made

in your fist the molten core

to shift the earth's plates

and should you choose

to cast down your rod

all nations would wail

at the wall of your flood

in our titanic enterprise

we cannot defy and long survive



pity is hidden . . . from my eyes



saith the lord

with sympathy stirred

i'll not execute my wrath

i'll not again destroy ephraim

for i am god and not man

the holy one in your midst

with terror i will not come

i will ransom them

from the power of the grave

from the hand of sheol

. . . redeemed

o death

i will be your plagues

o grave

i will be your demise