Hunting for Sport

There is a soft moon o'er head;
its quiet light is distilling
all the frightened thoughts as I tread,
stops my heart from turning to lead,
keeps me from falling over dead,
and allows me to keep on living.

The cool wind brushes my face;
causes great horripilation.
Spiders spin their spiderweb lace.
There is a fear I can not place,
like I was prey in a great chase,
brought me to a strange revelation.

Crooked branches rake my skin;
I run fast and my breath grows short.
I flee this trouble that I'm in.
Behind me there grows a strange din;
cries of the hounds of hell and sin.
I've become the Great Deceiver's sport.

I turn to look all about,
but soon it grows too hard to see.
I know I can't find my way out,
so to God I beg and I shout,
but my salvation I must doubt
because no one can hear my plea;
The Great Deceiver has consumed me.