I was angry:
Well little one,
What precious gifts have you to give me?
What secrets have you kept hidden within the folds of your skin?
What flowers flourish in your freshly weeded garden?
Rue my lord, is planted in my garden
And the tears I have shed water them fully
With crystalline substance
Of a sea-salt nature
My gifts are all ripped open
The golden paper is torn
The perfume has spilled over into rank excess
All my secrets have been extracted from my flesh
Exposed and open I face the world
And as it please you
To leave me at your pleasure
I am not what I was before
So say I am not your child,
Nor that I ever had such gifts.
Did you not pledge to me your devotion,
Your soul and your body?
All to me were consecrated
And yet you stand before me
And say that all this you have squandered on another
Given your very self to unworthiness.
That he did take is a certainty
And that which was taken was indeed a gift
But I did no giving
Or else I might not stand thus before you
Unworthy I may be
Do not say I have squandered
Or have dirtied myself in your eyes
For your eyes did not look upon me when I was so sullied
All that I did
I did in your absence
Hush child, I was there
My eyes follow you always
Never have you been
Where I have not also dwelt
Then for shame that you did watch
What no man’s eyes have right to see
Did my flesh turn gray and devoid of colour
That your all-seeing eye had cause to o’erlook
And discard your servant?
Did your ears, which hear the step of every ant on the sand,
Close off to my cries
Because they were not of sweetest music
But of the very stuff nightmares are made of?
Oh aye, I know well what the voice of hell sounds like.
I have heard it on my breath many a twilight hour
‘Twas not my fault that evil abounds in the world my child,
Among the gifts I have given to humanity
The ability to choose
To walk whatever path, good or evil, is none but your own making.
I saw, and I grieved, but could do nothing.
If you could do nothing, then you are not, nor have you ever been
My lord and father,
immortal among mortals
the great I am.
Freedom for your people,
A kingship for your shepherd boy,
A victory for your army,
And no angel to help me out when my tears soak the ground.
Oh wicked father,
To leave his children thus.
Thou art alive,
Surely there must be some thanks for that.
Your wound is not so deep
That it cannot be healed with my love.
True my wound shall be healed,
By whether or not from thy love is yet to be foretold.
As for my life,
The thanks for that is my own.
For if you cannot claim power to help the earlier defilement
Then you have no claim to the later.
Either thy plan is eternal and unchanging
Or it is not.
Either thou hast divine hands that could save and chose not to
Or thou hast not.
Either it was thy will that I am disgraced thus
Or it is not, and thy hold on the future is none.
Can you not conceive?
I am no longer a child of yours.
Children die with their innocence.
Wisdom comes from the apple
Which you forbade Eve to take
We are none of us children now.
And what of Heaven? Wilt thou consent to stay apart from me
In fiery seclusion
Far from my hands and heart?
Wilt thou be separated from thy life so eagerly?
Your hands parted from my heart long ago
And Heaven becomes a Hell for me
When such serpents gather inside its gates.
You have enfolded into your arms
the one who has ripped me from that very spot
and he dwells in your house freely
while I wander in the darkness.
He has been forgiven child.
No sin touches him that I cannot wash away
And the same is true for you.
Such sin should not be washed
It has sunk into my skin so deep
My flesh is red from scrubbing
And yet the sin is not my own
But the one who put it there has been flushed clean
By your own hands.
And as you can forgive that sin
You remain my unforgiven
For it were as well you’d forgive Lucifer himself
The fallen angel is already forgiven
But refuses to come to me
Out of spite and pride.
You will leave me for pride as well
It is a very grave thing my child.
Maybe so, but I must keep the little pride I have left
I cannot forgive
I am not God
And so you will not blame me for blaming you
Unless you are not who you claim to be.
I will weep for you my child
Aye, I rather weep as well
But ‘tis better to weep and retain myself
Then to smile and lose all I have left in you.
I am not Job.
I am not your pawn, your doll, your puppet.
I will not laugh when you beat me and beg for more.
I will not sing your praises while you allow dogs to tear my flesh.
I will not love that which abuses me.
I have learnt my preciousness in myself
And not from any part of you
And so I will grieve for the man who was lost
The one who died
From your negligence.
Farewell, my sometimes spirit
When they crucified me
No angel came
And now one angel flies away
From your hands.
They say you cant change the past...but if theirs a chance, its worth a try right?