The rising of a ballade

I think I want to write a short huitain.
Of what I do not know. But I will try.
By God my effort will not be in vain.
By faith in Christ, The Son. Not in the guy
but in my right hands urge, the reason why
The Lord can judge and deem. My love, I know.
I do believe in it. It will not die,
says God, the wonderwork of hawk and dove.

I think the love of Jesus will sustain
the life of one more verse. So I apply
the urge to make this number two. Again
I want The Lord, my love, to certify
the love for me. I am the mother, nigh.
The Son is this huitain. Of mine the love.
And you may wonder what it means to fly,
says God, the wonderwork of hawk and dove.

And if the two huitains I do enchain
I only need a third. Of course I try
to make one. See, the poem will detain
if by The Lord. The Lord will occupy.
The Son, my love, who I do versify.
By faith in Him, in Christ. My faith is how
He comes to life. The Son. Exemplify,
says God, the wonderwork of hawk and dove.

Prince, you do like the look of my refrain.
The Christ, The Lord, The Son I satisfy.
The faith of our fathers must pertain,
says God, the wonderwork of hawk and dove.

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