The fruit of the Sin

The Fruit of the Sin

In frost-bound village by the fjord's cold edge,

A stave church stood in silence, dark as ancient pledge.

One winter dawn, before the priest had rung the bell,

A robed stranger sat in the porch — none there could tell.

Through snow and wind and fading light he did not stir,

They left him bread and broth — untouched, as vespers were.

Word spread through village lanes and past the frozen mill,

That a holy man of God sat on the church porch still.

Then calm grey eyes opened — he rose and walked inside,

"Kneel only before God's throne," he said, "let pride subside."

Old Magnus paled — he knew the monk was Erik, long denied,

The boy he'd framed for theft, whose farm he'd seized with pride.

"God's mill turns slowly, Magnus, but it grinds full for sure —

Pray to the Lord alone; His mercy will endure.

Father in the Heaven forgive us all

for we know naught what we are doing."

Amen

ఎల్లెమ్మ జిలేబీయము