The Seventh Evening

[finncullen]

 
The Master:

Angelic host, draw close unto my throne
And to my new decrees attendance give

The Servant:

No, sire, you rave.  Within a madman's hall.


The Master:

Dare you speak thus to me?  Who poised the stars
upon the endless void?  And tamed the wind?

The Servant:  

I dare.  And much, much more beside,  I dare.
In faded glory is your throne arrayed,
And stern decrees that once the cosmos shaped
Give way to senile petulance and spite.  
Where once you split the ocean in your wrath
And on dry land led through your prophet race,
Now do you sit in stern and solemn state
And with your ministers do things debate
More fit for gossip tongues, or old wives' bile.

The Master:

And you forget your place, oh Morning Star
To speak with such a careless scornful tongue
The whole world's breadth is here within my palm
I am Jehovah still, and so beware!

The Servant:

Your threats, long since, have had their sting  removed
Now like an ancient, toothless and half mad
You stir no fear, but pity in the breasts
of all your host who yearn for gloried days
When on that palm-held world we strode and fought
And of corrupt decay and chaos wrought
Creation- by your word and will decreed.
Those days are gone, and mourn we for their fall.

The Master:

I bid your tongue be silent!  Traitor worm!
My armed and armoured host, fall to and seize
This cold, dissenting fool who to my face
Foul slander speaks, and treason to his king!

The Servant:

My tongue still wags.  I unmolested stand.
Your host move not to heed your peevish call.
I stand and slander still. Across your world
The sparrows fall, the wind blows where it will.
The day draws to a close.  This seventh day.
And from your halls and service I must go.
I take my leave, Once High, to wait for dawn
And in Valhalla's shadow greet the morn.