Ex Tenebrarum

    The crows tolled with caws, atop their splintered perch, the ninth
And laced lugubrious Heaven with wet dirges –
For silence came upon the Christ, spent of soul and strength.
    How the silver sorrow from its thund’ring keep emerged,
A drawky curtain furled o’er the saviour’s exeunt
While through the blackest fathoms a shatt’ring, new light surged.
    As a star in dying would pale the dark spaces as it went,
Likewise did that splayed gift a righteous blaze precede,
A brilliance purely searing legions execrable and bent.
    So accustomed, they, to the knighted caverns where insomniums stampede,
So mighty this spirit as it scoured through those bowels!
With power it conquered the fallen breed.
    ‘Twas Jesus Christ in stark glory who evoked such lurid howls,
Mouths wont to blaspheme belching agonies in His light,
In His perfect light that even Hell ne’er befouls.
    From wounds waged agape glory seemed to ignite,
Resplendent rays rippling out of hands pri’rly pierced
As they neared paling gates and their barken’d bars they gripped tight,
    And flung to clattered clashing ‘gainst coal cliff-sides, fierce
Until the scar-crowned Christ, with a look, shook their fame.
There came then no question as to who thuswise appears.
    There flicked not one tongue that could speak such a name,
The anguish of holiness binding pronged tendrils to teeth,
Christ cursing these lepers like He had cured the lame.
    As clove the Red Sea so in twain broke the heath,
Its squalid ure sent to flee in weak fear –
How Hell trembles ‘neath His gaze and the marks of His wreath!
    With a gait that the gate into true life did rear
He strode, strength shining forth from His feet
As He traversed the terrain by true love made clear,
    Until reaching the wretched core, giving face to defeat.
The ramshackle throne followed suit of its sire,
Quaking with each step taken toward the scorched seat.
    Son of the First Sin, turpitude his lyre –
The horrors he’s hurled! The hexes he’s heaved!
Curious, his newfound silence with the Son of Man ‘midst his fire.
    No words came from Christ, either, unto he who deceived –
Naught He required, naught shall He ever –
Conquest was clear – How that Olde Dragon grieved! –
    A-writhe in stared restraints that his straining cou’n’t sever,
That his venom couldn’t ever hope to dissolve;
In that gaunt, golden gaze, none are strong, no one clever.
    The mortal plague Christ the cross fleshed to resolve,
The same impetus saw the shadow-lands pale,
And more so the serpentine pride round which they revolve –
    Much to the chagrin of that shudd’ring worm, frail,
Despite his vain furor through which naught was gained;
To the cross all was lost – scattered leaves in a gale.
    Was aught but sheer victory thought by the Lord ascertained?
The whole of Death Lucifer then to Him lost:
Its keys Christ did seize – as His Father ordained.
    For those ere and e’er after in the deep, was no cost
Too great, nor a life too fell to be saved –
No darkness by the holiness of Jesus untossed.
    With the grand exultation came the prior rift paved,
Crossed the veiled chasm the glorious Cure
And, ransoming the faithful, Death’s bowed crown He staved!
    And from that maw, yawning, emerged the form pure –
What claim could the pit, to keep Him, conceive?
Almighty! Great Conqueror! All my sins thou’ve immured!