It’s a spirit-slide in the winter of the soul ‘neath summer’s burning sun;
Torchêd heart laid waste, undone in flying dust of crumbled heart so slyly won.
Haunted man ‘cross desert plain t’outrun his battalion of killer-dark dæmon,
And here at the edge of the world the battle for his eternity has just begun.
‘Where is your Shepherdess,’ voices scream; ‘Tis but the weak man’s dream!’
And is there no one now to redeem, to redeem this man from Death’s regime?
Ah! Such deceiver has his scheme to rule the man’s heart ere so supreme;
Supreme in dream and waking hour, to torture his spirit and heart devour!
Will she come hearing his mournful cry, no lie, and not redemption to deny?
Will she reply and he comply to drink her life and soft salve apply?
Will she fly this man to heavenly sky, to rest him ‘neath angels nearby?
Will she hereby wrap this man in strong arms, transfix him by hypnotic eye?
Precious and robed in Mystery, she is Love,
Who brings to battle-weary peace from above;
To the soul-sick wound, her balm doth apply;
Divine lover, who life gives to earth and sky,
Hear me, who prays and yearns for your flame
To snatch me from death, my heart to claim!