newageofhorus:

Azazel Cometh 
By Watchman Lightfoot 

Whisper my name and I shall come, 
Full and graceful in white array, 
Azazel softly spoken on the wind, 
Bear me up on white feathers, 
Alas tis true I have sinned. 

A roar above my head, thy beating wings, 
Barely can I speak your sacred name, 
Or ponder the solemn beauty that is you, 
My sins have made me anathema! 
Azazel tis surely true. 

And Lo! thy sword is sharper still, 
Thy tongue a lancet for my indignity, 
My ears would turn from thy voice, 
Shall I perish or be damned eternal? 
Azazel, there is no mortal choice. 

At last thy wings have covered me, 
Have smothered me in my guilty stains, 
My head is cradled in thy bosom, 
Asleep, asleep at ease from all my pains.