Author's note: This is based on a hymn that was based on an old French hymn which I thought was incredibly pretty, and this came out of that.
Let all mortal flesh keep silence,
And with fear and trembling stand,
The strains of a simple, ancient hymn flooded out from the cathedral onto the snow-dusted street lit by a few wavering street lamps above. A solitary young man wandered across the street, his stiff hat in his hand, drawn by the strains of music. His gait was purposeful, despite his aimless sojourn.
Ponder nothing earthly minded,
For with blessing in his hand,
He stopped at the steps leading up to the great building, and turned to look at the landscape before him; a desolate fauborg, empty except for a few beggars, still plying their trade, even on Christmas Eve. He reprimanded himself for stopping to daydream, but found that he could not pull himself away from the floating melody and haunting strains of the ancient hymn.
Christ our God to earth descendeth,
Our full homage to demand.
He reflected; the last time he had celebrated Christmas, he must have been about ten years old. What did an all-powerful god have to do with him, whose faith was devoted to Lady France? A helpless baby could not make a revolution succeed; there was no point in trying. He leaned against the cold stone wall and closed his eyes against the soft flurries of snowflakes.
King of kings, yet born of Mary,
As of old on earth He stood,
A pensive boy climbs the cathedral steps, his eyes full of the glory radiating from this place of religion. He hesitates at the threshold, as if debating the decision to enter. At last he turns away, and sits on a cold, wet step, his head held in his delicate hands, one finger gracefully touching his pale lips. The hymn is old, and he vaguely recognizes the tune.
Lord of lords, in human vesture,
In the body and the blood,
The night is cold, and snow begins to fall harder, covering the ground in layer after layer of frost. A snowflake falls on the boy's nose; he gently brushes it off. Shivering, he stands, and turns toward the church again. The voices sing, reaching out to him, but he resists.
He will give to all the faithful
His own self for heavenly food.
He can hear every word perfectly, and the immensity of their meaning hits him like a harsh blow to the chest. Their ideas and great plans for the improvement of humanity flash through his mind, accompanied by a single question: Why? Their bodies will not be cold before the fast-moving world of Paris devours them, throwing their bodies away into that vast abyss of history. Why do they do it? For the people. For the slim chance of success. For freedom.
Rank on rank the host of heaven
Spreads its vanguard on the way,
Inside the great cathedral, a man sits, his back straight against the velvet-lined chair for distinguished visitors. There is a great procession up the aisle; a bishop comes and prepares to light the last advent candle. But all of this means nothing to him, and his eye does not leave the pews in the back, where the poor sit.
As the Light of Light descendeth
From the realms of endless day,
The candle is lit with great ceremony, and the bishop comes to stand at the pulpit, in his rich bishop's seat. The high buttresses are veiled in shadow, just as the poor who inhabit the sad city's streets are hidden in darkness. A wavering light dances about the choir, who are still singing. Their mouths move; a sound is produced.
That the powers of hell may vanish
As the darkness clears away.
He glances over at the aisle to the side, and finds it clear. Holding his candle to his chest, he slips down the aisle, out of this cathedral which enlightens the rich and keeps the poor in ignorance. He pushes open the great wooden door, breathing in deeply the biting air, so full of snow and ice. This is where he belongs, not in that stuffy world of ignorance and hatred.
At His feet the six-winged seraph;
Cherubim with sleepless eye,
Up the street ambles a man moving dizzily from one circle of lamplight to the next. His eyes glance about nervously as he makes his way haphazardly across the fauborg, stumbling a bit. At last, his gaze falls on a single being, leaning against the wall of a dark cathedral from which stony voices issue. They are singing a song, perhaps an old hymn, but one he does not recognize. All he can comprehend is this creature of light before him.
Veil their faces to the presence,
As with ceaseless voice they cry,
The young man beside the door raises his head; he sees the drunken man, and turns away, taking its light with it. The man hobbles up the steps, the absinthe he consumes mocking old age. As he steps into the light before the great church, another man appears out of the shadows, the wind blowing his dark hair wildly about as he gazes at the seraph before them both. The angel merely stares into the darkness, unconcerned.
Alleluia, Alleluia,
Alleluia, Lord Most High!
The hymn is nearly over; its last strains float up into the dark heights above. The boy again appears, shaking his head wildly, trying to drive the demons from his mind. The young man walks toward the blonde, his arms outstretched in a gesture of sweet benediction. The drunk looks miserably at the gentle scene before him, and hobbles off into the darkness. Grasping at one last sweet breath of air, the man alone turns to his dark prison, and reaches for the handle of the heavy oaken door.
Let all mortal flesh keep silence,
And with fear and trembling stand,
The strains of a simple, ancient hymn flooded out from the cathedral onto the snow-dusted street lit by a few wavering street lamps above. A solitary young man wandered across the street, his stiff hat in his hand, drawn by the strains of music. His gait was purposeful, despite his aimless sojourn.
Ponder nothing earthly minded,
For with blessing in his hand,
He stopped at the steps leading up to the great building, and turned to look at the landscape before him; a desolate fauborg, empty except for a few beggars, still plying their trade, even on Christmas Eve. He reprimanded himself for stopping to daydream, but found that he could not pull himself away from the floating melody and haunting strains of the ancient hymn.
Christ our God to earth descendeth,
Our full homage to demand.
He reflected; the last time he had celebrated Christmas, he must have been about ten years old. What did an all-powerful god have to do with him, whose faith was devoted to Lady France? A helpless baby could not make a revolution succeed; there was no point in trying. He leaned against the cold stone wall and closed his eyes against the soft flurries of snowflakes.
King of kings, yet born of Mary,
As of old on earth He stood,
A pensive boy climbs the cathedral steps, his eyes full of the glory radiating from this place of religion. He hesitates at the threshold, as if debating the decision to enter. At last he turns away, and sits on a cold, wet step, his head held in his delicate hands, one finger gracefully touching his pale lips. The hymn is old, and he vaguely recognizes the tune.
Lord of lords, in human vesture,
In the body and the blood,
The night is cold, and snow begins to fall harder, covering the ground in layer after layer of frost. A snowflake falls on the boy's nose; he gently brushes it off. Shivering, he stands, and turns toward the church again. The voices sing, reaching out to him, but he resists.
He will give to all the faithful
His own self for heavenly food.
He can hear every word perfectly, and the immensity of their meaning hits him like a harsh blow to the chest. Their ideas and great plans for the improvement of humanity flash through his mind, accompanied by a single question: Why? Their bodies will not be cold before the fast-moving world of Paris devours them, throwing their bodies away into that vast abyss of history. Why do they do it? For the people. For the slim chance of success. For freedom.
Rank on rank the host of heaven
Spreads its vanguard on the way,
Inside the great cathedral, a man sits, his back straight against the velvet-lined chair for distinguished visitors. There is a great procession up the aisle; a bishop comes and prepares to light the last advent candle. But all of this means nothing to him, and his eye does not leave the pews in the back, where the poor sit.
As the Light of Light descendeth
From the realms of endless day,
The candle is lit with great ceremony, and the bishop comes to stand at the pulpit, in his rich bishop's seat. The high buttresses are veiled in shadow, just as the poor who inhabit the sad city's streets are hidden in darkness. A wavering light dances about the choir, who are still singing. Their mouths move; a sound is produced.
That the powers of hell may vanish
As the darkness clears away.
He glances over at the aisle to the side, and finds it clear. Holding his candle to his chest, he slips down the aisle, out of this cathedral which enlightens the rich and keeps the poor in ignorance. He pushes open the great wooden door, breathing in deeply the biting air, so full of snow and ice. This is where he belongs, not in that stuffy world of ignorance and hatred.
At His feet the six-winged seraph;
Cherubim with sleepless eye,
Up the street ambles a man moving dizzily from one circle of lamplight to the next. His eyes glance about nervously as he makes his way haphazardly across the fauborg, stumbling a bit. At last, his gaze falls on a single being, leaning against the wall of a dark cathedral from which stony voices issue. They are singing a song, perhaps an old hymn, but one he does not recognize. All he can comprehend is this creature of light before him.
Veil their faces to the presence,
As with ceaseless voice they cry,
The young man beside the door raises his head; he sees the drunken man, and turns away, taking its light with it. The man hobbles up the steps, the absinthe he consumes mocking old age. As he steps into the light before the great church, another man appears out of the shadows, the wind blowing his dark hair wildly about as he gazes at the seraph before them both. The angel merely stares into the darkness, unconcerned.
Alleluia, Alleluia,
Alleluia, Lord Most High!
The hymn is nearly over; its last strains float up into the dark heights above. The boy again appears, shaking his head wildly, trying to drive the demons from his mind. The young man walks toward the blonde, his arms outstretched in a gesture of sweet benediction. The drunk looks miserably at the gentle scene before him, and hobbles off into the darkness. Grasping at one last sweet breath of air, the man alone turns to his dark prison, and reaches for the handle of the heavy oaken door.