The fireplace had leaped to sudden life appraising with diffused vermilion eye my room, its poverty, with some delight it asked need I protection, sacrifice or death. Indeed in awe I could not tell but knew at once that I had been deceived. What spirit speaks as though to make a deal? Its tone not Greek but rasping Nazarene. ― You sent, I came, and wished to make a deal, all languages split equal from the fall (or so some Jews still diligently preach) I offer much the same as those you called. The word of God must shine in any tongue; your Greek is long corrupted and half lost, your Latin dull, administers and clerks outshine your poets. Tell me what you want? You have your sins, no doubt you wish forgiven, like everyone you have the need for love. Submit! And start again from your beginning, you simply need accept a single God. ― From all the spirits of the middle sea he brought more death upon our Roman world then any foreign tribe or hidden cult. You offer chains, and nothing that I want. What slave-made god makes slaves of men in turn? ― From Galilee this challenger appeared, a criminal in everybody's eyes. He spoke for the forgotten, made them feel as Jews again, though most were hellenized. Submission comes with love, you must accept your gods have never offered you free will, they moved you hither thither, never pleased, and fought amongst themselves. Of course you feel their absence now the empire has turned vain, and yet they too were worshiped in a cave, and nourished with both sacrifice and death, but soon defeated things can't be the same. ― Did your god rise again? I dare not say; he could have moved the stone, being young and strong, he could have walked, they never broke his legs, the spear pierced nothing vital I was told. He need not be divine for me to feel him worthy of my worship as a lord, but love is something new no god yet claimed, he asks too much, and in such paltry words. ― You jeer at love and yet of course you feel you have no better answer, do you not? Take heed, your faith will weather Jewish zeal, the love of Christ comes not from their small world. ’Tis true you say your temples will not last, but if the Roman spirit is to survive, to spread into new landscapes, you must bear to see your marble city sacrificed. Save what you can, the spirit must endure, in Rome you have the world in all its forms. These desert hermits must be taught to feel those attitudes incumbent in your gods. His followers for now are happy dying but soon their crimes will shame all Roman wrath, and once again man's fear of the divine will have its place within all mortal faith. ― ‘Who are you then?’ But silence from the fire, I knew the hour of rhetoric was done. Mute flames now danced with shadows, all the while I felt the hour of change to Rome had come.
Wow this kind of floored me actually. I love it.
I like the premise of a spirit talking from the fire but there's plenty else here aswell.
Thank you so much.
I was convinced that the poem was too long for most people so im delighted to see some have actually made it through to the end.