Into The Pit: Sacred Poetry
by Cosmic Poet Simon Pole
Trans Solar World Battery image by Joe Haput CC BY-SA
Into The Pit
Into the pit before me goes,
Into the howls, the shapes whose throes
Of shadowed pain would melt the heart,
And yaw the jaw if whipping starts,
But falls not the spike, or the tine
In this obscure and winding mine,
Only the lack of love or light
Imposes this reliefless night,
And somewhere I, though here behind,
Am there in front for him to find,
The one who far before me goes,
The one whom my location knows.
Into the pit has shed the light,
Of him who lit the darkest night,
A window jarred at tunnel’s end,
Which up above its beacon sends
That those below, if they so choose,
With open eyes, their filth can lose,
The crusted muck which sank them here,
And crusted more year after year,
But not enough to seal the sight,
Or make the arms be knotted tight,
They still can reach and seek what lit
The darkest corners of the pit.
But some will blink, and turn away,
“Abandon us,” they groaning say,
“And in this dungeon let us stew,
For we desire nothing new.
Disturbing is the effort which
These mummied bands would let us switch
For clothing clean, unsullied, fresh,
And transformation of the flesh,
This scarred amass of scabs and sores,
By the fierce light us which adores:
It’s total change we can’t accept,
Though long we have in prison wept.”
“Give us our chains, and let us sink,
And make it not so we must think
Of why it is we linger here,
Such self-reflection is our fear.
But even if there is no thought
Whose worth is such that it us bought,
We cannot make the sudden cry
That freedom from this slave-pen buys:
So we remain encased in dung,
And slowly is our beauty wrung
Over ages, and what we crave
Is to be left a blinkered slave.”
And struggled I against the urge
Of my comrades to fight the purge,
The fetid press, my former home,
The weighing down of stinking loams;
Though these bound souls were not my friends,
And the shouting here never ends,
No other habit known had I,
And without that for sure we’d die,
And here each has some little spot,
Though heaped with lice, and shot with rot,
And will defend each cell-like grave,
Against the rest, if they it crave.
But up above, and there behind,
Over his shoulder, I might find
A vision of a kingdom bright,
That knows no loathing, nor the blight
Of minds turned in, and eyes cast low,
For all around the glory glows
Of friendly folks with open hearts,
At least that’s how the vision starts,
But when the temple’s massive door
On hinges turn, I see the core,
That most extreme and ruling source
Who scours this delve with utmost force.
From clinging mud I feel the wrench,
And muted is oppressive stench
By scent of spices, and of oil,
I feel his hands around me coil,
I see the wounds, and there the cut
Where blade of spear had in him jut,
And then upon his back I’m laid
Which braided whips in stripes had flayed,
And though these shoulders dropped the cross,
Three days of death made good the loss,
And mighty is the victory
That carried me to pastures free.
Out of the pit, onto the green,
Where dazzled me the pristine sheen
Of peerless skies, he set me there
And let me breath the healing air:
Such aching joy rushed through my lungs,
For days untold I could’ve sung
That I was clean as was his skin,
Of blemish washed and freed of sin,
And then the pit he caused to fall
Out of my life, the inmates all
Convinced inside their cavern dim
They never have encountered him.
From the Like a Lamb collection.