The Eternal Wound

This is the time of prayer,
When I, upon this rocky path
Cry out for light to see my way.
And in the gloom that
Glorious presence
Stands beside me and speaks.

The voice is as the core of me,
Revealing by drawing back
The curtains of my mind,
Till I see vistas
Of ancient times and landscapes,
Until now hidden.

And there it is – my history.
And mine is yours my love;
Yours and ours all.
For this is what I have
Fought against
These years –
This revealing – this pain.

Yes – the heart in pain.
The wound that never heals.
The reminder of what
I had chosen to forget
That I now face.
And facing recall the warnings
Of this time of dissolution.

Dear God – the struggle!
How long has it been?
A thousand, or ten,
That I pitted my will
Against Yours?
And here, in this life,
The struggle has centred,
Has been fought around
The wonder, the agony,
Of love and sex.

For now, as the curtains
Draw back upon the past,
I see that mighty struggle
When God – for that is
What in today’s world
We have named that
Wonder within ourselves
That informs our lives –
Saw fit to wash
Away our sordid past
So we could start anew.

But some of us
Were initiates of that Most High.
And for what we felt
As common good
Opposed that deluge.
We knew the promised flood
Was arising out of our
Dealings with the Universal Good.
But to oppose it
We made a rule
That would put
A mind force into operation.
“Nought shall happen
That man does not will.”

And so we bound each other
To a mighty oath to
Stretch through time.
Each of us shall
Live this force,
And thereby set in motion
Energies to reach into
The very structure of
People’s lives,
And turn the tide
Of Cosmic Will.

Yes, the history
Of human lives
Was changed.
And yes, there was
The beginning
Of Devil worship.
For we objectified
A disharmony
Between the individual will
And that of the Divine in us.

We were the Mighty Ones
And live amongst
You still today.
Here within Earth’s peoples
We still carry the Mark
Of our endeavour –
The stab wound in the heart.
One petal torn from
The symmetry of perfection.

In the arena of the past
We fought with God,
And won that battle.
But in the winning lost –
And fell wounded.

Today that struggle
Still lives within this body.
The fight between
My will
And my surrender.

The path is not easy.
Love itself is a rose
With tearing thorns;
An arena where
I the gladiator
Fight the battle to survive.
Yet in that battle,
Slowly come to know
The Sacred Love.
And that Love tells me
That all who look
Upon this face
Will know
The path that I have trod.

Copyright ©2007 Tony Crisp