White are the robes of the sinless,
White are the souls of the pure,
Slowly their wings are spreading,
Protecting against thy wrath.
Through the sword of justice,
Your whip, created of anger, comes.
Through the hand of my protector,
Thou cometh to stop my path.
From thee I shy away,
from thee I turn away.
Thou wrath of despair,
Is naught but a hopeless case,
Senseless and childish in every way.
Thy whips of sin, anger and secluded nature,
Has shattered my angel, my protector.
But thy has awoken in me,
A passion for the truth and righteous
That ye will never know or ever shall see.
Thou art the one that will fall,
As thou has defeated me once,
Thou will no more.
For I need no such protection,
From a guardian of the pure.
Thou hast thought me the way
To be free from fear
And face ye in full glory.
Cometh and face me,
O master of thy wrath.
O come and defeat me,
For thou knoweth ye shall not.
Though the Angels have fallen,
My spirit lives, to keep me from thy grasp,
To save me from thy sin.
Thou can cometh,
But thou shalt never win.
A few words:
This poem is written with many archaic words (such as “thy” and “thou”). Although, today’s modern society has made these words seem “cheesy” (for lack of a better term), I think that the Archaic way of speaking is beautiful and very formal (compared to the informalities of the “now” English language). I do not know the perfect grammar, and sentence structures for the archaic tongue, but I gave it a try.