The Humble Rock Dove

The tree was always mine,
And always would be,
Should I climb,
Through veil, bracken,
Sober, spoiled,
To see the plans unfoiled,
In Egypt, Lord, of Jesus Christ,
Sword in right hand,
Sun in his Chest, To die,
And all with that inside,
With sorath, mad,
With spear in side.

An angry death, brutal and true,
The only thing the reports got true,
Was the new thief saint,
First one with him in heaven,
Clearly not his last words,
Except they were seven.