The Last Finger Poem by George Samuel

Pure hands,
There's no sand,
But your guile,
Shall turn you in,
No laws shall lie,
When sin finds you out.

And blood overrun,
The trenches of innocent slain,
That brought you mundane,
Living on high,
In the pedestrian of angels eyes,
Too big to value,
Then down to your venues.

Where counted lease,
Letting out seven geese,
With the finger of your hand,
Buried in the sand,
Small and Pure for the tomb,
Or the crowd that offend your womb.

Bend your fingers in peace,
Each at a time,
Taken from the hand,
And send to sand,
No mightier man has fallen,
Like this finger sullen.