from A Dearth of Prose

The emerald throne was burning
with lightnings in its arc;
a simple word a thunder,
and seven voices spoke.

Hark! herald in the bridegroom,
and watch the sword dismay
when sacred eyes all gleaming
on Adam's judgment day.

The hearts of men are beating,
beating to different lyre:
one decked in foreign regal,
one decked with burning fire,

and flaming eyes take hearing,
beseeching justice there
where Judah's Lion thundering
lies heavy in the air.

Fanged with the selfsame chalice
the asp had proud displayed,
here retribution's cauldron
decanted, marked, and weighed.

For you, O happy Shunnam girl,
in grace have passed the storm's black days,
in grace shall pass unceasing days;
in grace have passed the former,
now grace shall be your all.

The lion and the scepter
passed judgment on the sea:
a flaming robe for every tear
that defied anarchy.

'But for my bed of agony,
when I in dread decay,
you passed me by; so evermore
I pass you by today.'

The sword, it drove a lightning bolt
pure from the hand of God:
the abyss of all creation spoke -
and echoed back to God.

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