ISAIAH

So now you understand me well: your face is sweating and white, your hands tremble, your eyes are aflame with fear.

But what did you say was the answer to my question?—come on, I know you’re not so pious as that. Still, you are very much a broken man—look here, I have no time for your qualms and squabbles. Although you’re an upright man, although you have power and are firm in your beliefs—no, this won’t do at all—you must take it by the ears, and drill a hole between the eyes.

But now you’re nothing but a zombie, an empty shell full of cobwebs, a bit of flesh covering over a little dust and trash and dry weeds. And I shall open up the skies, and an army shall come from the skies and take you prisoner. They shall bind you and take you down under the earth, and you shall try to do penance down under the earth—you shall try and fail to win my favor. You shall be buried alive, and survive, and live out your days deep in the watery caves, where the rivers flow through darkness—a place full of blind beasts and strangeness.

But where did you get such lovely golden plates?—such beautiful silverware?—such soft silken clothes? Now is the time for your feast—live well, drink wine, eat meats. I shall send a hundred thousand men to come and ship you off soon—for now, you are joyous.

The time-clock has rung its bells; the hourglass has fallen and shattered; time moves backward toward your test; you are a broken, hungry mob. But this is all in the name of glory and power—the strength of your arm cannot save you, but that you can move like my puppets—should you strengthen yourselves on your own, well, I shall raid you with stronger and stronger men, who shall come and bind you hand and foot, and carry you down where all is darkness and monsters. I am your spirit: you are my flesh: you are puppets, all of you.

And your glory has wilted: it is your autumn, and you cannot stand for the weakness in your legs: your arm cannot lift a cup to your mouth, your fingers cannot grip a cup handle. You are enervated and you have dreams of power beyond anything you have ever seen—your flesh is all weakness and your mind is full of glory—you are rich in lofty dreams and poor in flesh and muscle. You are my flesh, I am nothing without you but an empty wind pushing nothing—and that flesh has weakened and thinned. I shall send you great terror that you may build yourselves up, and strengthen yourselves upon terrible trials and suffering.

What’s this awful noise?—this clashing of cymbals, this beating of drums?—O this is a mad music, and the people have all turned wild. This is the abode of fire on earth—this is the place of demons and devils—I have brought myself down under the earth, and cannot see anything but flame—here we are, we have lost everything.

What is your name? How do you come to me thus, like a beggar? Stand up, take your sword, and slice off the heads of those serpents that lie coiled around that cross.

Where did you think you could flee to, little man? What ocean did you think you could cross, what mountains were you going to traverse, what deserts were you going to escape through? Your way is the way of the flower, blooming, fading, blooming, fading: there is no escape—you live and live, die and die.

So you thought you’d break bread with those types, eh? Their hands are dirty, their clothes are rags, their hair is matted—they are the fruits of your system, and you shall soon all be swallowed up by them: they shall rise up and overtake kings in palaces, they shall be a flood that will wash away all the wealth in the world—little man, how did you think you would create these monsters and then keep them contained in a zoo? How did you think you would build enough prisons to contain all the beasts you have made with your well-oiled machine?

This is your little cross, this is your little god man, this is your broken promise and this is your water, pure, clean. Now go and commit every idolatry—cast your pearls to swine. Little man, lovely man, your flesh is made of the substance of eyes, full of light, shimmering.