Friday, December 28, 2012

Piedod Man, Ak Dievs Visaugstākais

He is the one who holds the stars in His hands of light
"Sum Alpha et Omega; Iesse Virgula" ait.
Está más allá de los confines del universo.
E vai julgar contra o mau e perverso.
Il est la gloire.

Hither and thither, we all habitate within
The Dayspark and the Nightguardian
The Second Person of the Tri-unity,
Instills courage in His holy Community
He has the glory.

Manifeste magnum est pietatis sacramentum,
Quod manifestatum est in carne iustificatum
Est in spiritu apparuit angelis praedicatum
Est: gentibus creditum; in mundo adsumptum
Est in gloria

La tela espacial y temporal anidan en Él
El tiempo es como línea escrita en papel
El cual es el Dios triuno que supera
El mal con el cruz que él abandera
Merece la gloria.

Por isso Cristo é o cordeiro que foi imolado
Desde a fundação do mundo. Foi sacrificado
E nos librou com o seu sangue escarlate
E resucistou dizé-nos que foi bastante
Nos deu glória.

Et aujourd'hui il nous appelle passionnément
Oh, que nous cherchions ses mots qui vivent.
Le temps restant est peu, et grande sa gloire.
Ce qui est important nos devons apercevoir.
Soit a Il la gloire.

Friday, December 14, 2012

The Lion on the Bed

As I sat down at my desk, I opened my laptop up.
A lion with a golden mane gently trod into my room.
I did not notice him, so instead I scanned the internet.
He looked at me gently and steadily, with flaming eyes.
I searched for webpages titled "Evidence for Lions"
The lion climbed upon the bed and lay down, head erect.
I sighed and placed my face in my hands. Videos.
Majesty and beauty leapt like flames from the lion.
I did not know him, I did not see him.
The lion's heart beated like a steady heavy gong.
I opened up another video, and then I heard him.
The lion on the bed gazed at the back of my head.
The video was a song, the roar of a lion.
The lion on the bed saw tears stream from my eyes.
I turned and before seeing him I knew he was there.
The lion on the bed.
I wept openly and bitterly for my lion-hunting,
And I bowed down before the lion on the bed.
His waving cloak of gentle fur was like silk under my fingers.
I pressed my face into his mane, and wept anew.
The lion nuzzled his head into my neck.
Peace like a cloud descended on me.

Now when I walk, I walk beside the Lion.
Down the hallways of my school the Lion walks beside me.
Gently and quietly he walks, this Lion on the Bed.

Monday, December 3, 2012

The Calf-Path

One day, through the primeval wood,
A calf walked home, as good calves should;
But made a trail all bent askew,
A crooked trail, as all calves do.

Since then three hundred years have fled,
And, I infer, the calf is dead.
But still he left behind his trail,
And thereby hangs my moral tale.

The trail was taken up next day
By a lone dog that passed that way;
And then a wise bellwether sheep
Pursued the trail o’er vale and steep,
And drew the flock behind him, too,
As good bellwethers always do.

And from that day, o’er hill and glade,
Through those old woods a path was made,
And many men wound in and out,
And dodged and turned and bent about,
And uttered words of righteous wrath
Because ’twas such a crooked path;
But still they followed — do not laugh —
The first migrations of that calf,
And through this winding wood-way stalked
Because he wobbled when he walked.

This forest path became a lane,
That bent, and turned, and turned again.
This crooked lane became a road,
Where many a poor horse with his load
Toiled on beneath the burning sun,
And traveled some three miles in one.
And thus a century and a half
They trod the footsteps of that calf.

The years passed on in swiftness fleet.
The road became a village street,
And this, before men were aware,
A city’s crowded thoroughfare,
And soon the central street was this
Of a renowned metropolis;
And men two centuries and a half
Trod in the footsteps of that calf.

Each day a hundred thousand rout
Followed that zigzag calf about,
And o’er his crooked journey went
The traffic of a continent.
A hundred thousand men were led
By one calf near three centuries dead.
They follow still his crooked way,
And lose one hundred years a day,
For thus such reverence is lent
To well-established precedent.

A moral lesson this might teach
Were I ordained and called to preach;
For men are prone to go it blind
Along the calf-paths of the mind,
And work away from sun to sun
To do what other men have done.
They follow in the beaten track,
And out and in, and forth and back,
And still their devious course pursue,
To keep the path that others do.

They keep the path a sacred groove,
Along which all their lives they move;
But how the wise old wood-gods laugh,
Who saw the first primeval calf!
Ah, many things this tale might teach —
But I am not ordained to preach.

- Sam Walter-Foss