THE MIDNIGHT HOUR

The preacher spoke of the midnight hour,

The zenith of old Satan’s power,

When things unseen are always mean

And nothing good can thrive.

Satan cloaks the eye and soul

To lead the blind with mal control

Then cackles at the hideous cries

Until the dawn brings light.

But darkness hath another veil,

Exact in each minute detail

To the midnight hour’s fears;

I’ve walked that daylight dark.

In broad daylight, inside the mind,

A dread unease, yet undefined,

Gives in to Satan’s unholy grip

On the struggling soul.

The devil hates to lose control,

Not because he respects man’s role;

He cares naught about the man;

He wars with our God on High.

The preacher spoke of the midnight hour,

That sleepless time to cringe and cower,

When demons taunt the mind,

And they will follow past the dawn.

But the Good Lord says, “I will give you rest.”

And He has answered each request,

When I have—earnest—sought in prayer

Release from the midnight's spawn.

                                    --Monty Wheeler