Thick cotton-clouds, descending upon the ground,
Black like Laodicean wool, never make a sound,
Subtly they weigh down
All those here who gather round,
Over time they suffocate with hate,
Or in dejection they drown.
Bring us back from death to life,
Renew in us the Spirit right,
Break our bones, then bind them tight,
From within our hearts, give us sight.
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