A Morning's Work
Of all who hail thy presence as the morning-
Of all to whom thine absence is the night-
The blotting utterly from out high heaven
The sacred sun- of all who, weeping, bless thee
Hourly for hope- for life- ah! above all,
For the resurrection of deep-buried faith
In Truth- in Virtue- in Humanity-
Of all who, on Despair's unhallowed bed
Lying down to die, have suddenly arisen
At thy soft-murmured words, "Let there be light!"
A light voice croons in the dark. The dim torches flickering through the room illuminate her golden head. A figure rocks back and forth as a small child steps out of the dark. The lank hair hangs about its head in curtains. The crimson robe drags on the stone floor to the holy table.
"Why do you cry?" asks the light voice. Glistening cheeks, bloodshot eyes and broken breast rise to meet the child's gaze. Words wrenched from the pit of a black well are spat into the echoing silence of the vaulted chamber.
"Y-you! You killed her! Murderer!" He lurched to his feet, tottering as a drunkard, hands balled into fists. The child remained a statue. It tilted its head, eyebrows creased.
"I did nothing. She did it herself." Waves of fury slid off the man's shoulder as he stumbled forward.
"Lies! You drove her to t with you sorcery!" The child shook its head slowly, solemnly.
"It is no sorcery to tell a person that which they fear is true." The child paused but the man was silent. "If anything, you drove her to it. She told you she was afraid-did she not? She told you she didn't have the strength to do it-did she not? She told you she was not pure enough-did she not? And what did you do?
The man reeled as if struck. The powerful hands ripped at raven hair.
"My love! How could such a fate have befallen you? Ah would the gods reverse the hourglass and grant that my love for you would awake you from that horrible slumber!"
A soft, tinkling little laugh ringing of intentions too dark to name echoed through the cloying air.
"As if your selfish love could save her. Only the love of the Gods could do that. If the Gods love us, anything is possible. They did not love her, nor do they love you." The child paused again, but the man was not listening. He was gazing at the departed face of the woman who had been his world. The child added softly, to itself.
"It is me whom they love. They smote my hateful parents before the war. They transformed my useless brothers. They took me in their arms and showed me what love was." The child spoke loud enough to hear.
"Your sweet departed love is probably waiting at the gates of Eden for you. A pity you choose not to join her. Only a coward seeks to run from love." The man turned to the child, his body relaxed and his eyes soft, but with a glint of something unnamable in them.
"Waiting..." He murmured. "Yes…waiting…" The sky grew lighter and lighter outside the colored glass windows. The child raised its arms as the man stepped across the room to pull the stained silver dagger from the woman's breast. He examined it carefully before shrieking.
"Wait for me my Angel!"
The first rays of sun trickled softly into the room. As a new crimson shower flowed and the dawn of the apocalypse shone into the cathedral, a little child smiled.
At
the soft-murmured words that were fulfilled
In the seraphic
glancing of thine eyes-
Of all who owe thee most- whose
gratitude
Nearest resembles worship- oh, remember
The truest-
the most fervently devoted,
And think that these weak lines are
written by him-
By him who, as he pens them, thrills to think
His
spirit is communing with an angel's.