Psalms of the Uruk

[Burnsider 4542]

 

Deep in his meditations as commanded by Callahan Bishop Citrea, on the Fifth Day of his journey on the Path of Owyn, Sir Zugha the Tower found himself drowsy and weary after seemingly unending fasting and prayer in front of the Pyre of Minitz. Fighting exhaustion, he felt a hand upon him and the Uruk was suddenly compelled to write. Pulling parchment and ink from his pack, he began to put word to paper, but found he wrote not the hastily scrawled scratchings that were his normal script, but rather that of a delicate hand. He found his spelling to no longer have issues and he wrote as if he had been brought up speaking the common tongue and not the tongue of the orcs.

 

 

 

As the heat of the flames rise,

But for my faith, my eyes would turn away.

Could our end but be in flames?

Does the Uruk deserve more in their soul?

Every Uruk is a slave to their rage,

For they are bound to it,

Granted no respite from it, as the

Humans are bound to their short lives.

I turn away, but it calls me ever to it,

Just as the addict is drawn to the Green.

“Keep it contained,” I cry out to my Creator.

“Let not my rage turn me from Your Light.”

My will, alone, is not enough,

Nor my body, alone, strong enough,

Or my spirit, alone, able to cage it.

Place Your icy hand upon my brow.

Quell the fever Iblees placed there.

Relief would flow through my body,

Sighing, I would relax in your hand.

Tortured, I would be no more.

Under your care, I would be at peace,

Very content in your embrace.

Would that You would find me.

Exact Your will upon me.
Your servant, then, would I always be,

Zealous to Your every command.

 

The earth cries out to you, oh God.

Creator, Your achievement proclaims Your name.

The sun rises each morning,

A flame to mark Your blessings.

The mountains rise up to be close to You,

The clouds gather around them, hoping for Your touch.

Ever do the waves lap upon the shores,

Ever does the spring bring rain.

The moon changes phase,

The tides rise and recede.

Without words or voice,

Your presence is clear,

Your presence is distinct,

Your presence is illustrious.

None can plead ignorance.

 

Show Your Displeasure to the unworthy, Creator of all,

Let no one proclaim Your name for his own gain,

Let their wickedness draw your wrath.

The starving man begs for a place at the feast,

But the fat man casts him away for disturbing his meal.

The wicked place those who might seek You in a cage.

Will You not break the chains placed down by them?

Their words are honey,

but their deeds are poison.

Their praise of You is beyond measure,

But they heap scorn upon Your creation.

Ever it bites like a swarm of locusts,

And those that draw close to You feel its sting.

Bring upon them fire and ruin.

Let them feel the chains they themselves place.

Tear their skin, rend their flesh.

Make right all they have done wrong.

 

In the depths of time, where shadows dwell,

Beneath the watchful eye of the Almighty,

The understanding of God beckons to the hearts,

Of the uruk, the mightiest Descendant.

Yet, not all heed the call, for the path is wide,

And many are the roads that souls may wander.

In the forge and the fight, God's presence waits,

For those who choose to turn their gaze above.

Krug, their progenitor, in ancient fires forged their legacy,

A tale woven into the fabric of existence.

For God, in His boundless love, gazes upon the uruk with favor,

And in His wisdom, has set a destiny unique.

At the culmination of days, in a symphony of cosmic order,

When the celestial bodies align and the Skies resonate,

The Void, shrouded in darkness and steeped in mystery,

Shall be bequeathed to the uruks, a realm to eternally refine.

In this realm of dread, amidst the boundless expanse,

They shall hone their strength, their spirits unwavering.

For God has seen the potential in their hearts,

And gifted them a forge of eternal fire.

 

O God, the heart of the uruk cries out in anguish,

For the burden of bloodrage weighs heavy upon him.

In the heat of battle, his honor is eclipsed,

Lost in the tempest of uncontrollable fury.

Thine eyes, O Lord, have seen his struggle,

Yet the shackles of this curse remain unbroken.

He stands on the precipice of his own nature,

Yearning for release from this unrelenting storm.

Why, O God, hast Thou not granted him reprieve?

His soul is ensnared in the throes of relentless rage,

And his honor, once gleaming, now lies tarnished,

Like a blade dulled by the ceaseless onslaught of time.

In his righteous fury, he marches forth,

Seeking a path through the darkness that shrouds him.

His heart beats with a fervent desire for redemption,

To reclaim the honor that has been stolen from him.

O God, if it be within Thy divine will,

Extend Thy hand to lift this heavy burden.

Grant us the strength to rise above our curse,

And let our spirits soar on wings of newfound grace.

[Timer 1434]

Blessed Francisco's severed head smiled contently within his arms, admiring his old knight's psalms.