O Mighty Camelot

O mighty Camelot, high are your walls.

A mountain heaping hot coals on your head.

Don’t wake the giant when anyone calls.

Who sleeps so restless, lies dead in your bed.

I drink like the wormwood, bitter it moans.

O mighty Camelot, closed are your doors.

A gift to your sin that rots at your bones.

A desperate hunger for which you wage wars.

But righteous He is Who sits on His throne.

He plucks me out from the net of my foes.

Your graven image; mirror that you own.

He guides my steps with mercy he bestows.

Your vanity is a calamity.

And He does laugh at its insanity.

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