Our Ills b4 Our Maker

His wrath is back on earth. With distaste unmatched, in a fit of furry unknown... He eschews mercy in great abandon. He never considers a pardon, but awaits all in abadon. Because in our recalcitrance, unrelenting stench- a stinking instinct of evil is manifest. He's drawn his sword born in his swollen scabbard. We've gone bad. Our precipitous sins bore him. He has withdrawn his grace- He considers such save 4 mercy. God who's all-knowing, d mighty alone on high. He breathes like fumes from furnace. And He burns wit sevile outrage. Man has betrayed himself, mankind has strayed into d far-down fiery depths of ills. He remains h*therto obstinate. Although ab initio man had loved, now alas! Man is amiss. Billowing tides break apart, at our feet waters render apiece, with a mighty surging to and fro, endowed wit strength n might. It comes by dint of dearth of hope, retreats in trace by dire n mire. Hopes once lush r now awash, for we did abide evermore ashore.