if angels had hangovers

If angels, pure, were to suffer in woe,
From ethereal heights to earthly despair,
Their radiant forms weighed down, moving slow,
By the lingering fog of a celestial affair.
The golden goblets of ambrosial wine,
Once sipped in mirth midst heaven's bright expanse,
Now bring a toll, a heavenly design,
Leaving them weary in a sorrowful dance.
Their voices, dulled, in the morning's first light,
Their halos flicker with a weakened glow,
Yet still, they tend to mortals in their plight,
Seeking safety in the realms far below.
Oh, if angels had hangovers,
this we'd find,
Even in their pain,
they'd be gentle and kind.