the morning star,
the true embodiment of song,
the first archangel,
the one who first loved,
the one who truly understood agape—
what have they done to you?
You who wanted to love more;
you who wanted to sing more—
you loved so much
you committed humanity’s gravest sin:
to prove that, above all else,
you were ready to give up everything,
just to be loved.
Oh, how they misunderstood you.
They stripped away your golden body,
the music you once became—now silenced.
They tore from you your wings,
the proof of your highest place,
and made you crawl
on the ground, slithering.
They cast you from heaven,
shunned what was yours,
called you rebel,
named you the embodiment of all evil.
Oh, how they misunderstood your love.
Now, they’ve given you a throne
in the deepest recess of hell—
without love,
without warmth—
they have abandoned you.
And only the few—
the bold, the daring,
the misunderstood—
still have the decency,
so rare among humankind,
to pray for you,
the one sinner
who needed it most.
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