The Painter of Apocalypse

Arise! St John! Immortal plume in palm

Proclaim the righteous indignation 

Of the Lamb

Against ungodly deeds, ungodly darkness

The Eden, once green, turned to famine's barrenness

Take heed, O Man!


Come forth! Poor rustic fool!

But ever-filled with wisdom, from the throne

And ever shining

Discriminate the light from deadening night

Warn that injustice is discerned from right

The day's declining!


Arise, Apostle!

Meekness, orphan's sorrow

Offers no great, grand accounting for the morrow

And yet thou bleedest

The pen is thine, but judgment's fiery sword

Is committed to thy Master

For thus we read it!


Hold firm, St John! Hold fast, amid the storm

The stones of Patmos cry out, as wounded Abel

Pleads for mercy

There is no righteous resolution of the tempest

No peaceful day has dawned upon the better

Nor the worst


I see many wondrous things I dare not name

My heart is troubled, sorrow, misery, dread contrition's shame

And yet I know, if such truth's vouchsafed to thee

Tis truth enow to shield e'en such as me

Hold firmly, John, and drag me from the mire

To be with thee, to cling fast to our Heavenly Master

For this, please God, e'er shall be t'sum of my desire!

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