Fellowship & Fairydust

“And then the heathens became madly incensed because of this faith, for he always asked Christ to his help. Then they shot at him with missiles, as if for their sport, until he was entirely surrounded by their shots, like the spines of a hedgehog, like Sebastian was.” – The Passion of St. Edmund

 

I am a Christian king; the rood is my rod.

I am a Saxon chief; my sires were wolves.

My crown is gold-gilt; the Christ’s thorn-wound.

What I would give for a blithe exchange!

Hail, Lord, slave-silent and ashamed,

Who left His heaven and bore my hell,

Raised high that I might be drawn up!

God’s Son, a warrior, bound to the Tree,

A princeling young, trampling down Death.

Burning unconsumed, His heart;

Bursting elder skins of wine,

Redder than the first dawn’s glow.

Temple toppled, curtain tore,

And Mary triple vigil kept

Until the tomb-tied corpse arose,

The first fruits of a sweeter Spring

For those who have their being in Him.

Spurned by His own, the scepter passed;

Now heathens have been christened clean,

Disciples throughout mid-earth made,

Blood-bought and burdened joyously.

From East and West, we come to feast,

A share in the bread, a sip from the brim,

And the Lamb is our bounteous liege.

At fifteen years, in throne I sat;

The oil on my forehead shone.

Baptized anew, and born to rule,

I was like Adam, Steward of God,

Image-bearer, breathing clay,

Forming words, and freeing worlds,

Bestowing names that mark out men.

But Adam fell by bitter food

And crowned himself a garden-god.

Like the serpent, weed-winding,

And leaf-clothed, he wore his woe.

But naked I lie upon chapel floor

Humble before the Savior stripped,

The Word which opened not His mouth.

I wish His heart to fill my breast,

Stern as soldier, meek as monk,

And give me good news for the poor,

For I would bind the leper-sores

And banish bribes from silver tongues.

This to my people I would give:

Justice, and a listening ear,

Heeding complaint, upholding right,

The Word of God upon my lips

Like David, with his psalm-strung lyre,

Wrought in my books and memory.

For thirteen years, peace reigns with me,

But destiny will close its grip.

War-wolves ride the ragged waves

And at my borders howl. 

These heathen hosts of thunder born

Serve gods who read the ancient runes,

Betraying life to see their death

And know the day of doom.

But my God has already died

And robbed the grave of gloom.

There is nothing left to fear

Beneath the Easter Son,

Nothing left, but to follow Him

Down into caverns deep

Where the Light has pierced a path.

Oh, dreadful blessing, glorious weight!

How can this king endure it,

And leave his folk undone?

We fight, but are cut down like corn;

The raiders reap their cruel rewards,

Slaughtering my thanes in sleep

Ravaging wives, enslaving youths.

My strength cannot redeem their loss

For it is severed at the root;

I weep for those who served me well

And forswear my own escape.

It was ne’er my way to flee

And outlive those I loved.

But Christians must forgive their foes

And pray that sinners live.

So I throw down weapons keen

And face the foe unarmed.

They strive to make me puppet king

Who pours libations to the trees,

But I have other wine to spill,

A higher nature to obey.

My garments they divide,

And my body they beat down.

Muddied, the mighty lord

Broken, the bloodied warrior,

 Club-crushed, bone-bruised,

Dragged through frozen field,

A sacrifice for harvest rich.

My eight and twenty years are spent,

And the ground cries out for food.

I shall not live in sword songs

That drench the drinking halls,

Yet let my name still make a mark

Within my Maker’s mind.

Bound am I to living oak,

Sacred wood of heathen rite.

Arrows fly like winter flocks,

Beaks breaking skin and soul.

I am a beast, not a man

A spectacle with spikes,

A thistle with thorns.

They watch me, my subjects,

Weeping for their children.

They mock me, my enemies,

For worshiping weakness.

I cry out to my liege, the Lamb

To give me strength through slaughter.

“Jesus!”

God saves!

“Jesus!”

Son of David!

“Jesus!”

Take pity on me!

If You be the Christ, save me!

Not this body, no…

This shall be rent, and rot,

But this spirit, knit to Thee

May yet have song to sing,

And when the world is made new

Weave me whole again.

Let it be that one man dies

And the nation lives again.

This, then, I give my people

This alone I leave my people

The head hewn from my neck,

An offering to my people

A sacrifice for my people

Watched over by wolves,

The symbol of my people

The power of my people

I give them a new birth of blood!

I give them a martyr!