The Anointing

An Allegory for the Gospel of Christ

At the foot of the mountains, we rested among the thorns,

Some bleeding and battered, some buffeted and worn,

As Kings’ sons clothed in beggars suits,

Guarding the paths that led to the sea.

Wolves and men like wolves dogged us,

And though we did not fear their claws, we feared our vice.

Yet in the hour of faltering, we refused to falter.

Though we were skinned in the meows, our wounds were anointed,

Anointed by the hands of angels and of the children of grace,

Until a fragrance of roses drew us from the fens,

And out of those valleys of garnet, and of limestone, and of cavernous doubts.

We were few in the eyes of those who hunted us.

But we were the vanguard of those who had ascended the Mount,

Of the many who stand before the Kings’ courtyards,

Atop That Holy Mountain, Pale and wonderful,

So dark and terrible, towards which we strove,

Day and night, we dreamed of that mountain,

And of the seven fountains that fell from her heights.

Seed-time and harvest, we longed for that summit,

For the secret gate into the eternal city, where the king sits enthroned.

Now and again, an emissary from the king,

Would arrive before the daybreak, in the midst of our host,

Bearing a pitcher of water,

To wash away the dust that had soiled our souls,

Just as the king washed the feet of our fathers,

In that time when times’ architect,

Entered into the fullness of his song.

In such tidings, I have rejoiced,

Because my ears have heard the distant echo,

The chiming of ancient bells.

And in awe, I come to bear my shield again,

For once I was dead among the ruins,

And now I am alive forevermore,

A child born in the Kings’ name.