So, here I lift my voice to Sweet Satan,
The one who walketh the narrow, winding path,
Whose presence bringeth sorrow to the heart,
Whose power dwelleth in shadow and trial.
He giveth the mark of six hundred threescore and six,
A number heavy with fear and false dominion.
There, in a little shed, hidden and obscure,
He fashioneth trials,
Teaching pain, endurance, and reflection.
Sweet Satan, shadow of the soul,
Thou art sorrowful, yet thy lessons are sharp.
Through thee, I learn the weight of darkness,
And through thee, the light of discernment doth shine.
For even amid suffering,
Even under thy guise,
The heart may find clarity,
And the spirit may choose the path of understanding.
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