It's calm here. Calm and peaceful and beautiful beyond belief. As I lie at the foot of the hillock, my head pillowed on the lush rich grass, it's hard to imagine that it was horrible once.
Yes. Once—and not so long ago, if the centaurs speak truth—all this beauty was a barren wasteland. There was no young trees here to land their shade, no clear brook to stir the soul with a melody, and instead of flowers, pebbles dotted the ground.
But that was before. Now the wasteland sings.
The followers of Aslan have done this. Aslan himself has done this in a greater way…or is it not smaller? Ah, all I know is that it is a paradox.
My heart was a desert once, rougher and harder than ever this meadow was. Does it matter that I was young? I hated goodness. I hated him. And he gave me a kingship.
Oh, Aslan, I can't say anything to add to your glory. No words of mine would be sufficient. But all I know are words, words and the music of the brook. You've set a stream flowing in my heart, Aslan …you've given me laughter and sunlight and song.
I lay my sword at your feet, forever and always. Do with me what you will, my king. The meadow you've replenished belongs to you.