Thrasher's Call

Author of Ages, whose words our hist’ry write, who spun the tale that makes our world go ‘round, whose careful hand inscribes my ups and downs with bardic craft, plot-twisting wrongs to right: help me. My res, in medias, lacks sight. Must every chapter tell of villains crowned, while innocents’ and victims’ cries are drowned by ink-dark conquest blotting distant light? Spoil joy! Reveal some artful end, lest I should miss the story for its pages! Dispel my page-bound now-ishly illusions; recount to me the way You’ll finally win, the way you’ll pull the threads of all the ages, and pay off all their subtle hope-allusions.