Angel

Angel

Azrael’s name is one that we fear;

Mentioned in whispers on the edge of a tear,

Standing in doorways, or sat by our bed,

Azrael’s face is the one that we dread.

Azrael’s eyes are pits of dark flames.

Filled with compassion, he plays no sick games.

Watching the dying, he waits as a friend;

Azrael’s comfort is there to the end.

Azrael’s sword is the coldest of steel;

Cutting so fast there’s no pain to feel.

Flaming with pity, icy with care,

Azrael’s sword cuts straight and fair.

Azrael’s wings are the feathers of night;

Unfurled in the darkness, they shine without light.

A fragrance of lilies, a touch of cold earth,

Azrael’s wings bring forth a new birth.

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