There spreads an odour difficult to name,
Of expectation guttering to grief,
Where faithfulness is like a candle flame
Snuffed out in pungent fumes of unbelief.

Invasive doubt enshrouds the candlestick.
Pervasive disappointment chars the air.
Forlorn and purposeless, an untrimmed wick
Has buckled down to blackout in despair.

The nations rage, imagining vain things
Against the Lord and His anointed Son,
Yet all the while their spate of riotings
And spite are spurring His great purpose on.

World mobs are working out His grand design
Unconscious that as drudges of the King,
The Chosen People they as one malign
Will by Him, in the end, rule everything.