The Renaissance caught him in its stare
As Michelangelo looked in the mirror
I don’t know if he liked what he saw
But like a servant he started to draw
Samson loved Delia he thought
She took his hair and loved him not
Though bittersweet he cried aloud
And brought the pillars down upon the crowd
You’re a golden pane
Of stained glass
With a little grace
This you’ll find at last
Well your soul is too old
For this Modern age
Shall be released
When it leaves the grave
You’re an ancient soul
Looking for rest
I hope you find it
In an angel’s breast
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