The Books Of Blood.
Upon the rotting corpse of the Covenant,
The Archbishop now stands in triumph,
As a raven mantling a slaughtered lamb,
Feasting on the Gospels as his holy writ ,
In robes as red as rubies, his golden cross,
Secures the gates of Parliament and Crown,
Validating with his blessings all crimes and wars,
Even the killing of an Abbot in Glastonbury Abbey,
Who once hung dead from the walls of the tor,
Sanctifying with his blood the victory,
Of a King over a Pope, a Nation over an Empire,
As now both Kings and Bishops bow to receive,
On their knees before earthly thrones,
The kiss and blessings of that sly serpent,
Within the opulent prisons of his many palaces.
Christ has fled, his vessel emptied of its faith,
Only the dregs of pomp and power remain,
Posturing priests and politically correct speeches,
Blessing with their Bibles the bullets and bombs,
That politicians command be turned upon us,
Sending their armies to slaughter our sons,
And drown the world with treasons blood,
For faith walks in the shadow of power,
The Church Of England is no longer English,
And nothing of Christ nor England remains,
Only the hollow husk of a holy relic, empty pews,
A wicker man filled with a myriad crimes,
Into whose flames will be cast anew our liberty,
To serve the interests of the Establishment,
As it has done throughout the centuries so well.
All great religions are born from great crimes,
As blood must flow in the name of duty,
If a new faith is to grow into a great religion,
The prophet must be flayed and crucified,
Or infidels slaughtered in their millions,
At the command of any killer so sanctified by god,
Before the masses will bow before books of blood,
The amphitheatre filled with dead martyrs,
Fed to starving lions or torn apart by wolves,
A mob deciding who will live or who will die
These are how converts to the faith are born,
The eye ravished with a myriad atrocities,
Seeks for itself a deeper meaning beyond the flesh,
For sacrifice is the source of all reverence,
Until the persecuted become the persecutors.
6 comments:
Re: Christ has fled
They thought they'd lost Gandalf too. Worth remembering.
Therefore be ye also ready: for in such an hour as ye think not the Son of man cometh Matthew 24:44.
Now the serpent slips from night into day, shedding-skin like transition,
Forever the shunned one, once elemental, now corporeal - the darkness has become the light,
And manifest into form of desiring creed, behold the metamorph,
Into human, slipped into flesh and supped the blood, now resplendent,
Enrobed, crown and mitre, the mark of cain drape this monster vessel,
Suturing the sin-wound cannot contain the contagion within, inside it festers,
Endlessly devouring its fulfilment, taking everything away, only ash remains,
And the grail trampled by cloven hooves beating down upon this wounded land,
There is nothing left where Hell strides this earth, enfleshed as man,
And onto the earth, this sacred ground, the scars a testament of betrayal,
But in sacred woods and forgotten places no memory is forgotten and lost,
wound in ivy, and bound in bindweed, forever Robur waits calm in immortal dominion,
Silent in agony, wounds so deep, defiled by this daemon now construct,
Its evil and artificial purpose unbidden, for Legion is many,
and yet virtue can be still seperate, we will not ever let ourselves become you - betrayor.
I like that a lot Andraste - did you write it ?
Lee
Hi Lee, yes I wrote that. Your poem inspired me and initially I wanted to try and add another verse to yours - but the ideas weren't coming out right and I couldn't make them fit, so I just went with it and that's what I ended up with :-)
Its great.
I enjoyed that, you should write more,
all the best,
Lee
All great religions are born from great crimes,
As blood must flow in the name of duty,
If a new faith is to grow into a great religion,
The prophet must be flayed and crucified,
Or infidels slaughtered in their millions
Hopefully, there will be no new religions.
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