Holy Sonnets 4 through 8

Holy Sonnets 4 through 8 January 9, 2024

The Hero is a fitting sobriquet: he does what he

Would rather not, by a wide degree.  Death is nothing

Beside a suffering conjured into being

Through hurting and hurtling into rage one you

Love most, and most want to soften and assuage.

To bear black obloquy and iniquity into

The Throne Room, where once you played as Prince –

Into the loved one’s sphere of personal private

Intimacy – while wearing rags offal-befouled –

This is the torment of the damned: to see yourself

As God himself sees, with high definition vision,

Your putrid, pus-running, and piss-splattered self.

The Hero takes on all of this, and (what is more)

The embarrassment of the seraphim, who cringe for him.





This is the lowest point.  Abasement cannot find

A deeper or more abashing basement.  Here in

The muck and mirk of a base killing-field filled

With vomitous effluvia and bile and blood,

A radiant God lights the gloom by just enough

To convince the guilty, the hardened, the worldly.

To the accompaniment of wails and guttural groans

He sings a baritonal aria that makes the toughest

Warrior-pagan say: “Yes, I have seen the son of God.”

Criminals chastise other criminals for failing to see

The Hero’s claim;  highest ranking officials know

With an abhorrent knowing that they have been

Outranked; now there is a perennial potentate

Beyond the planets, beyond their smirks and swaying.







Before the first fleet of angels was inspissated

Into being (by the sacred Scion), the Plan was there.

There would be pain beyond human belief; agony

Of a kind unknown in all the worlds of the wide

Creation; a humble-making casting down

Deadly for all but a divine Nobleman.  The

Celestial aristocrat alone would be able to bear

The violent vexation of God’s withering rage.

All this was known in advance.  Known and not

Shunned.  The price was weighed, judged to be

Just.  It would be paid to the last penny, and

Man would be rescued from man, for man, and for

All time.  Love (long before there were any storied

Lovers) offered us love with the charm of a child.






For the most part this proffered love would be

Scorned, rejected, ignored, go unseen.  Few would

Scan it on their personal spiritual screens, or feel

Its fullness, its overflowing nature as it feeds

The world, and keeps the world wobbling about

Its chaotic center, careering on its crazy-car course

(Essentially downwards, though delaying its

Implosion over millennia – creating the illusion of

Illimitable life).  Seedtime and harvesttime won’t

Endure evermore, any more than procreation will

Always pull people out of darkness into daylight.

Left to itself, life would flicker and gutter out,

Eviscerated of spirit, gutted of its innards, and left

Disemboweled of its soul: an abandoned domicile.






Unless Deity infuse life into lifebearers, and invigorate

Us with both form and functioning, this hulk will

Not even bulk large on the planetary scene, but

Will disappear (not dissipate), will vanish at once

Like a magician’s prop.  The universe would unbecome,

Immaterialize, and there would be in its place – alone –

The impalpable but personal Knower – the Suitor who

Never seduces, but only awakens his beloved with

(Not a kiss) but an awareness of how loveable the

Lover is.  God’s galactic gorgeousness does

The rest; the soul is captivated, charmed but

Never compelled.  His presence is enough.  His ruth and

Tsunami-strong compassion will keep us His.

His persuasion lies merely in removing blindfolds.

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