What a piece of work is a man!
how noble in reason!
how infinite in faculty!
in form and moving how express and admirable!
in action how like an angel!
in apprehension how like a god!
the beauty of the world!
the paragon of animals! (1)
The Word of our bards, poets, and prophets,
The elixir to despair, the blood of the holy grail,
Forgotten or worse, betrayed in the unknowing,
Of knowing without knowing, or ever loving,
The Self,
The Self in the Other,
The Self in God.
This Word of life, from these scrolls, dries, crackles,
Back to dust, the Spirit receding behind the vale.
The paragon alone, neither knows nor apprehends,
A vanity, an iconoclastic mime, signifying nothing.
The Ego,
The Ego Alone,
The Ego Infidel.
Word for lies are bartered. A soothing emptiness.
Chest thumping, hollow boasts betray and bewail.
'Ere angel muses are discerned, 'ere cooly dismissed,
For demonic tongues, an apprenticeship in hating.
The Being,
The Being forlorn,
The Being damned.
Yet this Word abides in lives received and then given.
Not in parchment nor pixels -- on human hearts, frail,
Lives of love and faltering faithfulness, wayfaring,
Dying, Baptism, Communion -- salvation in becoming,
The Beloved,
The Beloved Child,
The Beloved loving,
The Beatific One.
1. Hamlet, Act 2, Scene 2:
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