Wherefore in center of the storm, while all ‘round
Oak trees bent and tore from ancient roots;
Where wind is whipped into a frothy thing,
As unalike to air as stone to skin and blood to milk;
Where Men and Women are as mice and rats,
Who scurry from the light or in the black of night
Bear down into cradles; those wretches, huddled in
The writhing mass, tear flesh from flesh in hunger’s yoke;
Where two by two, the beasts of earth rise sullen;
Peat and sulfur fall from ossified skin, and make
The earth akin to the home they hope to return;
Sits an island of cool shade and trickling streams;
And on that island again there is a pool, but not of
The waters which now the woman sits upon; nor the
Baptismal pools, left in their holy place and unfettered by sin.
No, the water flows like once hard glass, now freed
From caste to joyously jump ‘round His blessed feet.
Oh! those feet, whole poems could be writ about
their bounce and serene grace; and about His
countenance, the way His arms fall to his side, the way
His eyes look deep into the hearts of beasts
And ferment there a spark of the divine. In every
gesture of His hand He brings before Him the
whole world; and like through a drop of water seen,
makes it as a single word, an echoed chime upon the pane.
No sooner can one’s heart calm its frantic race;
No sooner can those lucky few find solace in
The waving grass, those reaching arms up from
The ground, a living font of His bright gaze:
When in the distance, a figure comes; as if to
Mock His gentle gait, it moves with jerking steps;
As if to remind those watching of the storm
Outside, it speaks with curses in a desert rasp.
“What brings a nomad as yourself to such as still
And silent a place; surely you do not wish to be a
Warrior in a holy war, or servant of the lamb of God.”
The figure is now feet from the pool; and each
Sigh, and every ragged breath, tells well the story
Of its life: of miles walked through the holocaust
Of dust and empty riverbeds; of crumpled children
On the ground, walked past without a pause; of
Bodies buried and knives held to throats; of great
Burn scars hid by worn old coats; of silence.
The traveller rose then, and casting off his rags
He spoke: “Oh lord in the garden, I have come to learn;
I have come to learn from the one who has seen
The earth as it is from heaven; the one who
Has made life from the dead and has spoken
The Words as they are written in heaven.
I have questions for the one who is called
Man and also LORD; I seek answers, and I will
Not be discouraged” and now the figure pulled
Back his hood to show a face scared seven times.
“LORD, have you forgotten that you are also the
Son of MAN? Do you no longer weep at the suffering
Of mankind? Do you not care for the murder of
Babes and the transformation of men to carrion?
Oh lord! would you not die again?
Have you already done your penance?
Are the sins of Men too great for even your
Death to abate them? Or are we no longer
Yours to die for?” Great tears now poured
Into the pool; and where they struck
The water turned, as well, to blood. “Oh lord:
Wherefore does an oasis sit while all ‘round
Beasts walk to and fro; while men are beasts
And beasts are but their teeth and claws; while
Water is as sour wine which poisons every
Brook and stream; wherefore does Christ sit in
Tranquility while death rasps drowned by
Horrid gale are lost ‘ere they can reach His ear?”
Now of those few lucky souls who listen in the
Garden’s sphere, one third were struck at by these
Words; and finding in their hearts unease, stepped
From Christ into the waiting storm outside. And
In His heart, too; where only truth can find a hold,
A creeping fear was rooting in. So now the garden
Was no more; where it once was, the desert had
Been for seven years. The poisoned waters of the
World now ran through the once sacred
Pool; and through the pool of Him as well;
A third of three was wormwood too.
Now I am in poor favor; to capture with my words
The speech of God and gods, with pain. A pain
Which pronounces the Word. Said this, in tongue
Which made the world: “Oh Father, LORD,
El, Yahweh, He who has a thousand names
In a hundred tongues; and yet it is me who
You decided to let speak the true tongue
Of your children; blood; you have never felt the blood
Which you let spill; you have given me the gift to
Speak as Man but only as a translator.
Only to fulfill your law; a law written in the Word;
To seal its truth with godly blood; to remake it
In human terms. and now again; the seven
Holy seals were not enough to bring your will
To earth; it needed blood, but not my blood;
No, now I stand as LORD only; the blood which
Flows is from your other children’s wrist.
Now I see, Now I see; the Word always demands the
Blood; and you, oh maker of the Word; always
Will let it bleed. Why? Why am I your instrument in
This? Why must I play at good and evil; making show
With your second favorite son to distract the
World while you drain it for every drop? Why?
Why speak the word at first? Did you imagine
In the void a crucifixion; when you spoke and
Lobbied and made yourself known; was it done
Just so your children would make war in your name?
Are sin and sorrow; the whole human comedy;
Is it a game to satisfy your need for blood?
Did your lust run so deep that you made closer
Yourself to it by having me, the Lord, do the bleeding?”
This and more was woven in the fabric of the air;
Was spoken, as a rebel cry; sweet seduction of the
Earth, like Jocasta from the father to the son.
So now a third beast walks upon the turf, with
Blasphemer writ upon his brow; and you shall
Know him and you shall fear him; and the whore
Who sits upon him is the great ocean; he is
The Beast of the Cross, most hated in the eyes of
God; who finds no blood under his tread.
Those who follow him will find no entry into the kingdom of heaven.