You pick the pulp still clinging to our teeth,
Your tiny molars crunch the seeds, while thorns grow beneath your baby feet.
Creation groans, and you cry, too, wails that will not be silenced.
“Hush! It does not matter,” we say, absently.
Beauty we know, and it is good, but glory, we have forgotten. We do the best we can. We clutch you to our marble breasts, and we distract you with shiny medals.
We confine you in pens of atoms. We swaddle you in Self, pulling the bindings ever more tightly, until your horizon is only as far as your own fingertips. We read to you only of things that we can measure, of facts and of formulas and of codes. We sing to you of things under the sun, of bureaucracies and of greed, of pain and of pleasure. We show you a form, but nots it’s power. Wisdom we lack, but knowledge — sweet knowledge — that, we can give you.
You do not answer. With heads bowed, you mine for truth in the caverns of trolls.
Listen, children! Lips move. Chests puff. Piano keys splinter apart. Cymbals clang.
Watch! Some sad thing crouches by the stairs, but we do not see. It follows you through long, cold halls, to the place where Cain stares into Abels’s eyes.
Moloch laughs.
“What have we done?” we cry. “We meant only to keep you safe, tucked inside our concrete walls.”
On Golgotha’s dome, Love weeps
Tears of blood and mercy.
Love with atoms, mingled together, spirit and matter,
Measured and immeasurable, knowledge and wisdom,
Seen and unseen, full of glory,
Love rises from a garden tomb, and Moloch shatters.
Look, children! There is Life.
Flee to him, and be reborn.
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Elizabeth Mundie 