I SAW him where the doomed, a thickening flood,
Jostled the brazen Gates of Heaven. He
cried
With dry-parched throat and lips beslimed with blood
And sought in death the hope that life denied.
He rose above the whining ruck around
And with no prayer he stood, and where he turned
His stricken eyes, I saw that clouds were wound
About the skies; all like a furnace burned.
“I have dreamed,” he wailed. “Enough, that I have
dreamed!
Weaving the magic of my thought to sense.
Crowning thereby my soul above what seemed.
Sick fool of faith, to be Omnipotence!
“God like a despot seems,” he cried, “yet sleeps
Benumbed, – no blasphemy if this He does –
No blasphemy unless His love He weeps
Even upon my own : it is not thus.
“I fail to-day, to-day I die, I wail
Hopeless, not praying, at His gates. Let be.
I die to-day – next time I shall not fail,
And God shall wither beneath My mockery !”
My vision in his speech was all consumed.
Straightway the clouds flared up into the sky;
And all the world was raw with blood and fumed
Far in the vision of my misery.
(E J Rupert Atkinson)
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