In our dungeon cells of stone,
Wizened, recluse, all alone;

We are smelting with strange fire
Stranger things of our desire.

Wild ambitions, drastic schemes,
Mixed with pyrite, phantom dreams,

Poured into our molds. Grown cold.
Help us, God! It isn’t gold.

krislyn_shankKrislyn Shank is happily living in inner-city Philly and loves sharing the gospel there.

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