Dread blackness thrust into the dust,
Forced thither by the hand of God,
Waiting, lurking, in the earth,
Below the grass where Adam trod,

Sickly peering eyes look out,
Admiring those bright pastures fair,
With every low, impious thing,
Conjoined in one unholy glare,

Privation is the price of sin,
The loss that grinds upon the soul,
The hand that holds us muted, dumb,
The dank malaise of death’s control,

Wherein our hope? What future waits?
What ladder from the chasms bleak?
What monumental feat of man,
Describes the rapture that we seek?

The softly beaming star on high,
Aloft, beyond the cherubim,
The Christ! Undaunted in his work,
Commanding all the Nephilim,

A fellowship of powers pure,
A flock about the holy loom,
With Satan’s works, pulled on a thread,
To glory, from the nether gloom,

This cancer is a fleeting thing,
The wry mistrust that cripples men,
Hark, Gabriel! His cry is thus,
“Stand firm; the Christ will come again.”

Adam Daniel, 06.09.16

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