(William Blake's Illustrations of Job)
Breath
as the Virgin receives the conception.
A trembling knife
Poised over Isaac’s head on the altar.
The step
before the Children of Israel walk through halls of water.
Hesitation
After Judas’ gasp, “Lord, is it I?”
Your drug: Uncertainty.
Your Pleasure: The Unknown
You bask in the falter, the waver, the choice.
You bury your treasure.
Dost thou control?
Where is Your god?
Does he sleep or journey?
Why, the very stench of his death lingers about you
and he rots inside the burden you drag along.
“But at least he is mine” you claim.
Lift out You filthy mind-
Who desires only for itself
A Truth, unlived
A Belief, untested
A Life, decayed
A God, unsought.
You have declared your pride worth damnation,
Your Possession worth hellfire,
Blackest night worth Eternal Abandonment.
You yearn for purpose
But for that which you seek, you fight heaven itself.
Foolish speck: Cry out.
Are you the maker of the wind?
Do you raise up the sun?
Does Job number the stars?
What are you, that turn from omnipotence?
That you heed not Eternity?
That you mock Righteousness?
Go out, You calamity of the world
And pit uncertainty against uncertainty.
And In that scorching fire
In the cremation of your decayed god.
In the stench of hell. In the death cry of you
Call out.
He will answer.
Face your creator, that enthroned Lord.
Submit. Kneel.
Will the King save this filthy watchman?
Who are you to ask
with naught to gain?
He will answer.
The decayed god was your only possession.
So you can offer Him nothing but the death.
It was all He wanted.
Comments