Bread baskets full, and a river of wine,
And gentle winds in a verdant garden,
Thus was the bed for young Mercy divined,
Under soft, fluffy clouds of a tender sky.

Her gifts were many, and given with joy,
For any whose pride could be ignored,
She always had a seat at her table,
For many friends more than worries afford.

But soon it was her – whose pantry laid bare,
Hers was an ask that none would ignore,
Yet even then she would not cease her care,
To any who asked, or spun her a yarn.

So bereft once more, she found herself starved,
Without a friend to meet her trust in kind.
With nothing left to give, she departed,
To bequeath her kindness, to any who she’d find.

She’d heard the tales of a most tortured soul,
Lost in the depths of a cavernous mine,
One of his making – in lost hopes to be whole,
Led astray by the promise of his trial.

From the first meeting of their gaze,
He knew that she was a gift, and she, though weak;
Gave his mind rest – and quieted his ache:
Put the light in his dawn, made his evenings less bleak.

His blade was tempered, molten metal quenched,
And for her, though she’d deny it:
A pail over her wants, and cease in her mention,
Of the need to help every stranger who asks.

Might brought her temperance, clarity of view,
As Mercy gave him a purpose, and one
Suitably noble – to channel his strength,
To her worthy ends, with impediments gone.

The fools at her altar will fall to deceit,
Or sacrifice all, without heed of the cost.
Her wisdom needs power to meet;
And power has no time for a bleeding heart.

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