On a wide lake covered by a gray fog on all side, a small row boat drifted on its shallow waves, blindly navigating the thick fog. A man stood up straight on the boat, cut the palm of his hand with a small knife and bled himself into the water.
He sang a song that had not been heard since the era of exodus as he sat back down and laid on his back, the boat rocking him on the waves like a crib. He sang the song of Abaddon, said to have come from the first contractors before the world took from them their last light.
How bright burns the light
In a darkness that won't yield.
Your name we will praise
But the scars are hard to heal.
For what man once feared
Is now a tale as old as time.
I want to preach in your name
From the top of the highest mountain.
But what good is my word
For a king without a throne.
Seeing is believing, lord
I wish you would leave a sign.
It is not mercy we ask for
