Armor rent; shields split...
Lances snapped and spears bent;
Blood for the Cross of the Martyr.
The golden moon on a sapphire backdrop,
The earth-mother's love, the word adoration of Yaweh,
Buddas plump familiar smile,
Shiva's allurnig dance.
All these must be crushed
Under the weight
Under the Truth
Of the Cross of the Martyr.
A quiet man sits alone in the desert,
Weary of preaching, tired of teaching.
Another man approaches, hoping to show
the follies of things yet to be
the hopes of reality ant the world.
"Tempter!" cries the quiet one "Let me be!."
The tempter only wants to save
of the Children of the Martyr.
Now is the time of sackcloth suns
Of boiling seas
Of rivers of blood;
Now is the time when the sinners repent
Or do they?
Where is the righteous savior
who once cried "Tempter!"?
He sits with the white sheeted dragon;
He cavorts with the black-on-red spider;
The petty despots and slease of the world
Are once gain His table-fellows.
The Martyr of the Cross, returned,
Finds himself, again feasting with the
This time there is no message
This time he has no crowds to preach to
They have already heard him,
And are as guilty as he is.
Oh sweet Jesus
what have you done?
You are human;
and by that sin, are undone.