A Mighty Stain
A melody in couplets.
This is a little experiment.
Sharp-toothed time’s dross is change, The new grows old, the old grows strange, And stranger still the old refrain, Branching and budding uncleansed stain, Who’s vapors whisper bread and wine, A table set where thirteen dine With all the world, heaven above, The far flung must of feathered dove, Of nail rust and apple wood The song of those who fell, yet stood, And stand forever, sea and sand, Incense and smoke from every land, The thunderous sound of choir-cant, The faithful knight’s last gasping pant, The lightning strike, the golden door, And dragon. These we know no more. Save in the stain that by time scrubbed Is still the verdant shade of blood. Though many come with woollen steel, Through bleach wieldt by them that deal In sin and lies and death’s despair And lye from those who cannot bear, Doubt transfigured by utter Truth, As husband guides his wife, forsooth, No atter-acid of the void, Could see life’s banner-stain destroyed, Nor knife tear up the tapestry, Woven of God’s good mastery, The doleful fate from gleeful norn, Is snapped yet leaves the crone forlorn, For fibers weave themselves from naught, And Maker claims His rightful lot. The desperate devil then concealed, The tapestry with Fall’s leaf yield, And yet the leaves upon lie gold, With life--all others brown to mold, The demons then again assay, With grass and loam to hide the Way, Where roses bloom, the lancing prick Soothed by the blossom slays sins trick, To flame they turn, a new resort, The burning bush, their efforts thwart, The imps them mutter up a maze, To hide the Way with thousand ways, The banner’s bush’s beacon bright Shows all those false and one way right, The battle wears yet on, the Cross Turns devil’s laurels to sure loss. The spirit of the world still grieves And rots with autumn’s sodden leaves, The righteous spirits and faithful few, Rejoice to see the world’s renew, Brigit of Killdare kept God’s flame, She wins high seat and mighty name, Pan died, he is in Christ reborn, Gains halo from the scapegoat shorn, Jove who reigned in the open sky, Gives back the name to An, most high, While Balder bore God’s prophecy Northward to ready the office, He Who answered Wot’s riddle of death Raised the white prince to rule the breadth, Of earth and all who dwell therein, And guide the heathen from his sin. All these and many more rejoice, Praising the One who gave them voice. We who now live in later day, Are lost and sodden sheep astray, Dunged with pride’s dross and half asleep Behold our ruined halls and weep, The rivelets through matted hair, Meet wedding garments tattered bare, And crown at rest in gutter’s floor, The knight’s helm that our kingdoms wore, And cast away at victor’s peak Thinking the strong could not be weak, We utter fools who all forgot, That even God knew horse-thief’s lot, Have still before us Heaven’s path, Yet many walk it not, their wrath Envenomed with sin’s vanity, Holds God at fault, insanity, With their own swords sheathed in their guts, Consumed by dragon’s ashy smuts, And chasing still the tin scounced smoke Of cope, breaking what they broke, Declare their own divinity.
Lord have mercy.