The August Lord

The Lord rises to our feet, but we must prostrate,
A river of certainty is managed thirstily, when we are straight.
The culture of our turn repeats the messages,
Why do plagues bore their way through premises?
The festival shines its light on faces of your majesty,
What culture is restricting you with sanity?
The craft of a generated tome is beyond belief,
Its august reasoning may be brief like a bay leaf.
The Lord raised the acts of a begotten tribe,
His authority is a powerful attribute to describe.