Son of a Storyteller

I arise today
Through the strength of heaven;
Light of the sun,
Splendor of fire,
Speed of lightning,
Swiftness of the wind,
Depth of the sea,
Stability of the earth,
Firmness of the rock.

I arise today
Through God’s strength to pilot me;
God’s might to uphold me,
God’s wisdom to guide me,
God’s eye to look before me,
God’s ear to hear me,
God’s word to speak for me,
God’s hand to guard me,
God’s way to lie before me,
God’s shield to protect me,
God’s hosts to save me
Afar and anear,
Alone or in a mulitude.

Christ shield me today
Against wounding
Christ with me, Christ before me, Christ behind me,
Christ in me, Christ beneath me, Christ above me,
Christ on my right, Christ on my left,
Christ when I lie down, Christ when I sit down,
Christ in the heart of everyone who thinks of me,
Christ in the mouth of everyone who speaks of me,
Christ in the eye that sees me,
Christ in the ear that hears me.

I arise today
Through the mighty strength
Of the Lord of creation

Once more into the Valley,
I’ll climb and I’ll steady fall,
a backwards rhythm pacing,
my known heels have felt before. 

A distance petty behind,
the river rushes on,
a thousand miles away,
a thousand miles gone.

Press on,
press on.

A crimson of pieces,
a scattered red black dark,
the thistles and the thorns,
push the river from my heart.

Press on,
press on. 

A figure on the hill,
it called me Saint to be,
a figure in the shadows’ time,
a widened ending street.

There was noise and there was matter,
there the bones of honored men,
I slew them one by one, 
to avoid the filth of death.

Press on,
press on.

I slithered canyon upwards,
with rocks between my ribs,
I carried his beaten head,
between scathed, rotten fingertips.

Press on, 
press on.

A voice between my lips, 
squandered out this lowly note:
“Once more into the Valley,
adorned my fallen master’s robe.” 

There were colors. 

There were colors and shapes and disgusting things that weren’t supposed to be. 

“Plethora,” he said. His hand wrapped around the red, moving the twist-wired pattern at the predetermined height. 

“Plethora,” again. 

The tree that fallen, 
whispered closley, me, 
“So too will thee,
so too will thee.” 

“Therein, ye gods, you make the weak most strong;
Therein, ye gods, you tyrants do defeat:
Nor stony tower, nor walls of beaten brass,
Nor airless dungeon, nor strong links of iron,
Can be retentive to the strength of spirit;
But life, being weary of these worldly bars,
Never lacks power to dismiss itself.
If I know this, know all the world besides,
That part of tyranny that I do bear
I can shake off at pleasure.”