over green earth and roaring rivers that, newly arisen,
burst forth from the catacombs of deviant frost.
she bid them welcome.
night was not enough to stifle the spring long contained.
the moon knew its course well and failed not to light the path,
yet its silken light once lowered was lost
beneath red-flaméd torches
and soot-black smoke, pouring up like shoots of ivy.
the moon cared not.
the rabble thus summoned prepared their appetites,
sharpening blades and vanities for the upcoming coup.
round, round the table they waited for the Victim.
the arrival of the Awaited shook the foundation of their glee:
weighted velvet pressing down against trammeled grass
left deep grooves in the growth-fragrant mud.
the echoes of His footsteps rang ‘neath howls of dismay,
as evil appetites and expectations were betrayed by craven cores.
heavy paws like sheathed swords carried a clear conscience to the slaughter.
silence.
brief, unexpected, striking silence.
then came the bravery of cowards,
the counterfeit nerve of those who believe themselves to be safe.
the guiltless King made no resistance at all,
as jeering voices cried out, lusting after His dignity.
they did dance vibrant curses round
as over they turned and bound Him.
her face showed the workings of her mind,
wrought with the passion of voracious cruelty.
upward His eyes were fixed as they sheared Him, kicked Him,
and spit upon His coat…
upward still looked He as she clutched her dagger above her head,
quiet and sad were His eyes, and then they shone no more.
victory made gluttons of the wicked,
leaving their conquest to slake their thirst.
the moon was left alone with the Lion,
and failed not to light the path,
shining through trees bowing in bereavement.
soon did the meek come to comfort and mourn,
near dawn did the chirping of birds send them homeward,
dew-damp grass and thawed earth sticking to small bare feet.
behind them red turned to gold
along the line where the sea and sky met
as the silence was broken with the roar of the Risen King.
At the sound of his roar sorrows will be no more.
When he bares his teeth winter meets its death,
and when he shakes his mane, spring shall come again.
One response to “the sacrifice.”
yeah i can't read this without weeping.
aslan is on the move.
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