Your mysteries felt like home

Where I could reside in wonder

Of your divine, anointed form

An emissary of sacred texts

Yet to be written and revealed

Proclaimed and protected

Oh, that I could have been your converted chosen one

With reverence and revelry

But judgement’s trumpet cast me down

Filling my mouth with sorrows

Becoming a morose predicant

Uttering in the holy tongue of the jilted