Warriorpoet9

Messenger of sorts

The hope of the nations, faith of a people

Have made their way into my hands

I cry out for help, cry out for peace

All love has run dry from this land

This back is tired, these fearful eyes

Your choice must be a mistake

Taking broken wings and tortured lungs

As your messenger of choice

I stand among angels, holy disciples

Why God, would you even want me?

I am humbled before such righteousness

Let me stumble yet never collapse

Allow your precious plans to consume this soul

Till the end of my last day has passed.