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.
V
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.
VI
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.
VII
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.
VIII
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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