Where did you come from loathsome vice

oft muted, mercifully constrained?

You’re the altar’s flame of burning ice

inner tranquility feigned.

You keep the gate for a powerless king

who scratches for a throne,

Whose worthless decrees he feebly clings

emboldened by his groans


My soul was veiled since birth.
My eyes could not have known
what blinded by this earth;
the King of Glory’s throne.

Owned by the darkness’ grasp
and lured by empty crowns.
My spirit’s judgment lapse
lacked His quiet sound.

Without a quickening turn
my heart was slowly crushed.
Wherewith a spoken wave,
by grace, supplied it’s rush.

His all familiar Word
now seemingly first known,
when King Jesus undeterred,
unveiled His glory’s throne!