Copyright (c) 2000 Theodore Beale. All rights reserved.
I stood upon the mountain stone
At Persephone's last hour.
The white steeds leaped, as I, alone
Witnessed their wat'ry pow'r.
The wind was cold and so the heart
Of this old, ancient land,
The promise of a newborn start
Shattered by Mar's red hand.
I will not mourn this Century
Reeking of blood and death.
That promise of Man's liberty
A crown unto Macbeth.
The bridge to the Millenium,
Is manned by Kerberus,
As tweve stain'd sons of Jacobin
A unity confess.
There is not one, not one, I fear
For wrath that soon must fall.
Those painted lips are smiling here,
The dragon conquers all.
And in this place there is no light,
Emptiness stalks my soul,
Where right is wrong and wrong is right
And Man's will is the whole.
And so I saw the city laid
Before me at my feet,
I heard the Siren's call away
From all that's right and meet.
Then winds of darkness harried me
With chains I'd worn before,
Whisp'ring of God's mortality
Seducing me once more.
My lips were sealed in fear and doubt
When a small stone did crack,
On that hard ground it was a shout
Of praise, in my own lack.
My hope recalled, I found my voice,
That wintry afternoon.
My God yet lives, I will rejoice.
Lord Jesus, come, and soon.