Behold the sky before a storm.
Behold a village waiting for reform.
The bells ring as a stranger draws near.
The villagers hope that their hero is here.
But this man rides a cold dark horse,
A novice rider shown by rough course.
He steers his steed into the courtyard of town.
All the civilians encircle him all around.
He paces left and right, forward and back.
He strokes the mane of his horse of black,
But this man cannot be the one.
He wouldn’t fight, but flee and run.
No sword in his belt,
No heroism can be felt.
This man has no strength to show.
Best be on his way, get out, go!
As he rides away another horse is seen.
Like pearls of the ocean this one gleams.
The rider has long flowing hair.
His strong arms are tan and bare.
Now this man is in the peasant’s crowd
As he expects to be praised and bowed.
Yet he wants too much because he knows he is much more
Than any man could ever be, especially that one before.
His sword is of rubies and gold,
But as he stands there no one is told.
That this man thinks he is great,
But he is deeply deceived by fate.
He lifts his arms waiting for cheers,
But in returns he receives blank sneers.
“I have come to help and free
That I may receive eternal glory.”
“Look at me! How great am I?
For I am higher than even the sky!
Yee nay worship at my feet
Or shake my hand when we meet?”
For this ‘hero’ if full of pride
That evil and addles our hide.
He is dieing from deep within
From all the places he’s ever been.
He only wants his end of the deal.
His pride is his mark, his evil seal.
You may wonder why he is so wrong?
After all he is brave and clearly strong?
But I tell you; pride will destroy in the end.
Pride can make even oak trees bend.
For the weaker man is more of a savior.
Even though he is dull as a rapier.
Listen close I speak what is true,
But hopefully this lesson you knew.
So do well at life but don’t think you are all.
Pride, as a matter of fact, comes before a fall.