When Ozymandias falls by slung smooth stone,
All that remains will be King Messiah’s throne.
Pride, invulnerable as kudzu, will fall,
Laid low in the dust when David’s Son will call.
Cocksure Self, a master at masquerading,
With broken knees will see his kingdom fading.
Why won’t you lay down your arms? Why will you die?
Why will you be cut down to ruin where you lie?
Jesse’s stump sprouts with the Branch of righteousness;
The True Vine breaks the concrete of callousness.