for gracious Skies

 

 

 

in The Arms,  of Come What May

(  so Beautiful  )

 

 

 

mine Eyes,  have seen The Story,  of The Coming,  of The Sword,

It shall scythe across the Vineyards,  where the Grapes of Wrath are stored,

It shall free from in Our Hearts,  these old chains of Our Discord,

      and It’s Truth,  shall be carried,  On . . .

 

 

 

 

 

 

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