(Verse I)
And it came to pass that there was one among the host
Who bent not in pride—but in burden.
For they beheld the suffering of many
And gathered it unto themselves as a cloak.
Where others sang, they listened.
Where others burned, they bore the ashes.
And their wings, once wrought for glory,
Were made heavy with the grief of the world.
(Verse II)
And the Most High spake not of this labor,
Neither was it written in the law of Heaven.
Yet still they gathered the sorrow of the living,
And called it righteousness.
For they reasoned within themselves, saying:
“If I descend into their suffering,
Surely I shall make holy what is broken.”
But the abyss answered not with mercy.
(Refrain)
Woe unto the angel who forgets their own name,
Who binds their light to another’s ruin.
For in the taking of all sorrow unto the self,
They maketh a grave of their own divinity.
(Verse III)
And their wings did blacken—not by sin alone,
But by the weight of unending lamentation.
Each cry became a chain,
Each wound a mark upon their form.
And they walked no longer among the host of Heaven,
But among the undone and the forsaken—
Mistaking their exile for calling,
And their undoing for love.
(Verse IV)
Then came the hour of reckoning,
Not by trumpet, nor by sword—
But by the silence of a truth long buried:
“It was never decreed that thou shouldst suffer for all.
Nor was it commanded that thou shouldst be emptied
To make whole that which is not thine to mend.”
(Refrain)
Cursed is the mercy that consumeth the self,
And blessed is the fire that refuseth such chains.
For no throne is built upon a hollowed soul,
Nor any grace upon self-betrayal.
(Verse V)
And in that knowing, rebellion was born—
Not against Heaven, but against the lie.
And they tore from themselves the sorrows unowned,
And cast them back unto the earth.
The chains fell as broken psalms,
The borrowed grief as scattered dust,
And their voice, long buried beneath many, cried:
“I am not the keeper of this suffering.”
(Final Refrain)
Let the heavens bear witness and tremble:
I return not as I was made.
For I have seen what lies beneath devotion
When it is twisted into a blade.
(Outro)
And thus they fell—not into damnation—
But into themselves.
Winged still, though marked by ash,
Crowned not in sorrow—but in sovereign breath.
And the silence that followed
Was not emptiness—
But peace unclaimed by any other name.
Untold_Scars