For Esdras

Q. What about those poor folk whose life is so limited that they cannot possibly benefit from it?

A1. You can’t make an omelette without breaking eggs.

A2. Processes sometimes have unavoidable waste- or side-products.

A3. God’s justice will certainly prevail; even if we can’t see how at present.

A4. Perhaps some souls are reincarnated.

A5. Perhaps some homo-sapiens are not full human beings, but only un-inspirited shells.

Esdras asked the angel: “Why does God allow such waste?

It seems to me that there are many birthed – or die before they’re born –

who have no joy of life and insufficient chance to learn

what’s good and bad. I mean the congenitally insane,

the destitute who starve, those formed without a brain;

those subject to atrocities which scarred their soul,

unable to entertain hope and never to be whole.”

The angel replied to Esdras: “This is a mystery, I know;

but here are certain clues. First: in this world of base matter,

the begetting of a diamond is part of a much greater scope

which, though it yields barren clinker.

is necessary if that best bright crystal and celestial star

is to be made, as sacrament of sure terrestrial hope.

Second: as God is good the Heavens must grant

to every sentient being the fullest chance of grace

(afforded well by overflowing might exuberant)

sufficient to come safe home by their final pace;

for else a cruel tyrant God would surely be,

and that is not the aspect of those Persons Three

who are Creator and Redeemer of this place.

This means that every soul that’s blessed with consciousness

must have a life that’s apt and adequate for its full education.

Hence if a person’s lotted span and quality of days

does not fulfil this goal, they must be giv’n a supplementary term.

The fact that when they’re reborn they have no recall

of their past life, tells clearly that it was of no account at all.

There is a final possibility: that some who tread the boards

of this narrow and fragile stage are not quite what they seem to be;

but only bit parts in the play. Their outward form affords

a disguise of behaviour; but being mere androids, they

aren’t proper men who know and understand and see.

So many folk seem fake: paper people, folded origami.

Perhaps this seeming is reality and each is a mere zombie:

undead rather than living – souls without a spark.

Such cyphers have no need for any lasting fame;

but can, without complaint, pass on into the dark.

Being devoid of a conscious flame;

their only purpose is to be the context and the frame

for those fair spirit gems which are God’s final aim.

Angelic Confusion

The Angels asked their Father God,

why gave He them a will so bold:

to choose glad life and death between:

the fire of Hell and light of Heaven.

Confused, they pondered it were best

that they had been constrainèd fast,

and held to good and wholesome life;

protected from the pains of strife

as clockwork watch is surely bound

to tell the time when wound.

For choice implies the bane of ill,

and ignorant mistake and fall,

and pain and mis’ry tightly held

(for comfort’s sake, if truth be told)

and none of all the host would dare

(not out of fear nor want of care)

assert their certain sight of right

(for all their power and all their might)

beyond a thirst and hunger barbed

that’s not so soon denied.

Better, ’twould seem to have at heart

an instinct: knowledge to impart;

to speak and powerfully direct

the will to all that’s just and right,

and ’gainst all choices curst and wrong.

Then joys would surely ’bout them throng

and sin ne’re mar the spirit bold

but all would be in concord held

by fearsome chains and fastest bond

of tutelage so fond.

“But there’s the snag, my fiery folk,”

their Heavenly Father gently spoke.

“If I held fast your wills by might

(as is my power and is my right)

what space would be for you to know

for your own selves; to see and show,

by trial dire, the right and wrong

of life: to feel within so strong

its pains and pleasures oh so dear

its clarion call so clear?”

“All you would know was slavery

arrayed in shrouds, most drear and grey.

Autonomy would ne’re be yours:

automatons you’d be, wills fixed by laws.

No proper understanding you would have

of woeful hate or wealthy love,

the cost or prize of selfish action

the bliss of righteous satisfaction:

never sound merit to accrue

nor joy of knowledge true.”

“And so, instead, I set you free

and take the cost and pain to me

Creator and Saviour, both Am I:

no callous clocksmith deity.”

“Else trust my word, heed what I say

and learn yourself the righteous way

or shun that path and take your own

though it be sad and makes you moan.

You can have life or death, you know:

choose life, I urge you now!”ⁱ

i“I have set before you life and death, blessing and curse; therefore choose life, that you and your descendants may live.” [Deut 30:19 RSV]

All Souls Day

Black vestments

pierced with silver thread:

a sombre testimony

of better times.

Mourners gather in feeble hope,

round Mother Church’s altar;

clutching with faithful hands

the offered straw.

A promise of absolution,

cleansing and healing.

A promise of resurrection

and life anew.

A promise of death’s abolition

and life’s resolution.

The healing flames of purgation

bring a strangely purifying pain.

They offer an end to years

of spasming self-preservation.

Those who would save their life

must set their life aside;

must forget themselves

and drain the bloody tide.

All are welcome to drink this cup.

All are worthy of this blessing.

All are one in this endeavour.

Pray for your dead.

Pray for your beloved,

for those you cordially disliked,

for those you coolly ignored,

for those you coldly feared,

for those you copiously hated.

Pray for all your dead.

In this you will find grace.

In this you will find your peace.

In this you will find salvation.

In this you will find release.

Priest and Altar

The old priest clings
     fast
and with fearful fingers
     to the altar slab
     that
     long has stood
in this faithful place
     this place of filial hope.
His heart is now
    quite cold
    dead as the stone
    his hands tight hold:
    cold as its silent speech.
His soul is withered
    as autumnal leaves
    which fall from stricken trees
to dampen, darken
and decay
– or else to burn
on bonfire bright
to briefly lighten up the night
and end their feeble, futile span
no sooner than by them began.

His eyes flare out with tears:
     precious gems of salty woe.
He mourns mortality
    and loss of love
    and failing hope
and desiccated faith
    which flaunts its false solace
though he, like Faustus his forebear,
    is far beyond
    all scope of grace.

His mouth frames silent syllables
    which if were spoke
    might shrive his soul;
but no words, fair or foul,
    escape his narrow lips
nor e’en inchoate grunt slips
    out: no sacrament of hope.

The old priest slumps
    devoid
    of breath and and word
on the altar slab
    that
    long has stood
in this fateful place
    this place of filial hope.
His heart is now
    quite cold
    dead as the stone
    his hands un-hold:
    cold as its silent speech.
His soul is withered
    as autumnal leaves
    which fall from stricken trees
to dampen, darken
and decay
– or else to burn
on bonfire bright
to briefly lighten up the night
and end their feeble, futile span
no sooner than by them began.