Canticle of the Angelic Ransom
XXVIII
My God hath sent his angel,
And hath shut up the mouths of the lions
And they have not hurt me.
Nothing became of the occasional rumble I heard in the prison
Vibrating deep in the brick-work, swelling to pitch and abating,
Tuned to a rhythm unknown: it was all I was able to listen,
Periods marked by a horrible quiet and pitiful waiting,
Nobody breaking the must-air speaking or moaning or weeping,
Only pathetic acceptance of fate as we mutu’lly bided,
Most of us now too enfeebled to muster an effort but sleeping,
Possibly supping whatever the little our captor provided;
Something was stirring below, it interred in primordial slumber
Though it disturbed by whatever the king of Masada had hastened:
Thus it had reason to shift weight under its hill to encumber
Whilst it had strength, and I glimpsed, as I laid on my side and awakened,
Something had burrowed itself in the red-rock wall by my eye-line
Working unsilently though not loud; not roared nor implicit,
Wherewith the echoing rumbling, possibly months by my time-line
Slinked by my eye as it crumbled and something was coming to visit
Terrible, troubling, witful and seeing: but what? for my devil,
That Skull-Duggery, never appeared with so caustic obliqueness,
Rather it sought for itself conversation on knavish a level,
Which as its own sin seemed not this, with its wretched uniqueness
Watching me darkly, obscured but intending to signal its presence,
Shifting about with the littlest motions but subtly noticed
Herewith its black incandescence, and non-aromatic putrescence
Growing familiar, seen not though I am wont to have known this
Tumult in shadow as growing upon wall edifice slowly,
Only exposing a horrible half-each smile and grimace,
Moving and possibly uttering something unheard but unholy
Distanced enough to be silent and, set by penumbra its limits
Nothing at first was determined of this grim guest but a stranger
Which could suggest it a mere fabrication, a mental invention
(Much as I rather preferred to another demonical danger)
Shortly before it had poured of itself from its quarried retention,
Flowing as water and, lest I be rightly accused as redundant,
Prolix or otherwise, where it dispersed had become to appear night,
Bringing the shade with its figure concealed so no light was abundant
That it remained hid; thus I, observing already with bleared sight,
Knew of it nothing but outlines and partial appearances motley,
Hence had it dragged to itself night, keeping sufficiently dark-robed
Whether indeed Skull-Duggery loomed or an equal-ungodly,
Bringing unnatural night, such this undispelled if a cock crowed,
Herewith a sudden recast of a faraway light interjected
Shone to its form: an amalgam of faces all starry in glimmer
Grossly converging in one gaunt face of a size unexpected,
Greater in scale th’n the height of a man; in a moment, was dimmer,
Writhing returning again to mysterious shadows abounding
Which it, within it, had mastery over the surface-embedded,
Watery dark as it better preferred; for the thing was astounding
Though I cannot be expected to pause and become empty-headed
Given my vision of angels and lynxes and devils as prev’ous,
This was direct and of otherly sort, and it spake to confirm it:
Prince of the hidden and furtive, creating ambience griev’ous
Grinding a stone on a stone with its motions, we, seeking a permit,
Such we may garner thy favor for audience thine, with permission;
Creeping in dark up to mine hand, gravelly-voiced and suppliant,
Drew up my arm and, too terrified now to adapt my position
Where had its words so confused me, therewith had made me compliant,
Thence it was lain on my shoulder and placed one kiss on my right cheek,
Suddenly right to my face was the visage of damnable rapture
Ghastly, unspeakable; eye to my eye and I, fearful I might speak,
Scream or reply, felt cold to an image no verses could capture:
After a moment a furious flurry of oracles flooded,
Quivering-splayed on a canvas of ivory-white and translucence
Slithering over, convulsing and boiling till it had budded,
Each with a sign of a sort with a garbling racket-confluence;
Thirst disappeared from my mind, as had hunger, and also dejection,
What I was left with was rapturous vision, but not in confusion,
Though as the images appeared, each traveled too fast for inspection,
Leaving me only a knowledge that had evaded conclusion,
Rather I knew that each had existence, but not as it were what-is,
Flickering wicks in the pale-faced reel of a gale undetermined,
Shifting cacaph’nies to crackling odes and repudiant touches
Stranding my mind as the splintering hierograms fled and recursioned:
Seeing Jerusalem whole from Oliviet; then of an ocean,
Wherein I saw Skull-Duggery; then two wraiths in ascension;
Then of Masada, its palace and two such men in commotion,
One who resembled me; then of Hadassa in quaint apprehension
When she invited me back to our bed; then Uziel free-flight,
Back in a faraway dream; then something unknowably cryptic;
Then of a haunt in a marsh; then mine own self as a Levite,
Acting as priest with my face changed toward a sign apocalyptic,
Filled with a burning menorah and setting a feast for a vulture;
Then of an entrance to dungeon, contorted to human expression;
Then of a strange land; then of a rabbi, as still as a sculpture,
Eyes in a furious glow incandescent, with baleful pretension;
Others appeared but were lost, and a last one also a first sign:
Twin cross standing upon plain hills, and it faded to white-out
Under the spell of the voice spake: mourned prince yearning for worse wine,
Then I with fear, like horror of sin or the terror of night-rout,
Felt but had not seen this thing’s gaze, we shall soon be together;
Fear not, someone has ransomed an angel for thee; it had vanished
Leaving a black stain pocked in the places it presenced, however;
Now it was silent again, and if whether by will or if banished,
Whether a warning or kindly encouragement, whether a vision,
Whether whatever I witnessed was witness to oracled message,
Likened to things that Abraham witnessed before circumcision
After he sacrificed beasts to a God he accepted as presage
Seeing a furnace and torch in the horrible darkness he suffered
Only a time but before he was ought to account for his child,
Called to deliver him bloody and burnt: for a moment, discovered,
Knew in his heart at the edge of the world in the juryless wild
What it had meant to be chosen by God, to be brokered His promise,
Something arcane I believe, but at once I returned to my senses
Hearing a scuffle and cry of the man who had, I be honest,
Suffered enough, who was beaten before for his nameless offenses
Rendered to swollen and murmured captivity, certainly painful,
Groaned for a first time, filling my ears in our custody muffled;
Though it had once, to offer him good speech, seemed to me shameful,
Something of courage or fearlessness, recklessness — something was ruffled,
Wherewith the impulse I reasoned to see what happened across me:
Come had a man with a switch, which struck on the man on his torso,
Which had arisen in mine mouth words of a sentiment costly,
That I demurred to the violence and offered myself all the moreso,
Taking his place; and the fellow revealed two more but behind he,
Looking to each one, gestured and chuckled in dark apathetics
Leaving the man and approaching me, entering coolly and blindly,
Taking their leisure as likened to gymnasts who train in athletics
Grunting together in moving the rock to my cell and, (together)
Struck me repeatedly, though I, accepting the punishment-portion,
Struggled to stay still, silent and righteous, but not to be clever;
Anger in both of the men so arose, each face in contortion,
Equally miffed and confused, and by quiet the two were so maddened
Taking their turns with the switch, soon earned from my suff’ring a whimper
Weak and unwell, and the sound in the echo had both to be gladdened,
Lowering each of their rages to beating me quicker and simpl’r,
Throwing their fists and delivering kicks in a harmony fleshly,
Rising as pure, black agony, this a regrettable trial
Which I have little to say on but that I was capably, deftly,
Perfectly handled, with every cry my ungodly denial
That I invited the treatment, and after the two were but placid,
Both spat, then eased nature and rolled back stone to position;
Leaving me burning in blunt pain mingled with resonant acid
Till I had heard them back to their planned and original mission:
Suffered I little for naught, to be brutally robbed of the glory
Due to a man who had offered himself, but I trust in the virtue
Which is above circumstances or outcomes I know a priori,
Since it is not what happens, but virtue itself to refer to,
Power apart from the work and the working apart from accounting,
None consolation perhaps for us both who are sore from a beating,
Though I can reckon it afterward-over the act of surmounting
Given the pain, temporary, and suffering, always so fleeting,
Makes but the accidents governing life in its course intranscendent
Shepherded meekly in avenues dimly, but see, we the beaten,
Owed to ourselves some strokes for the tune of a season unpleasant —
Though I had done none good for him, even to feel but a cretin
Bruised and betrayed, we of kinship pathetic and surely unfickle
Whereso a passion is always inflicted, a suffering gifted —
Sharing our similar stripes in our strenuous agony’s trickle
Thereby us both are a kin of our thresher and mutu’lly sifted —
Whereas for mine I had offered myself; for his own, be it wicked,
Wistful or tragic in origin, none of it differed in tenor,
None of it differed in swelling, for evils endured and inflicted
Mount to a same task, that of a shadowy memory’s tremor,
Meaning the one thing that I can say to my brother by lashing,
Peace, was an empty but whimsical call in the dungeon oppression
Till he had turned to me showing his face which, after his thrashing,
Came to its swelling again and concealed his intent and expression;
Though he was silent, I clearly had gathered his troubled attention,
(Might I be wasteful and try to establish myself as the greatest,
Rather than comfort?) so thus I began, in a marvel, to mention,
Seeking a stripe for a stripe, a thrill for an evil thou makest,
Whilst in ourselves we have guile in dealings and thirst for destruction,
Witnessing terrors and maimed for our faith in the God of our nation;
One who has strayed not far from His paths, nor from proper instruction,
Such he is reticent, friend, for transgression: each execration,
Cries but aloud up to God, croaking; the one thing we can give Him,
Showing my wounds and my permanent maiming, and mostly my lost limb,
Silently moving to each of my injury’s pulsating rhythm
Both of my arms, and comparing us both, as if what it had cost him
Leading to here in imprisonment meted a similar hindrance
Whether in flesh or a spirit of broken acceptance and seething
Spoke to me Words are of comfort to some, but thou makest a diff’rence
That I have seen not consequent changes, nor pleasure in breathing;
Rather I recognize that thou hast tried by a virtuous humor
Something of mercy, of sacrifice, something commendably human,
Maybe from God; nonetheless, thou disputest the credence of rumor
That thou art cursed, for a cursed man dwells on his bitter confusion,
Not on a good work — lest I, content to a remote relegation,
Let him believe it was mine own work, so he might reconsider,
Forged him response as I racked on my mind’s delegation,
Said I was burdened by conscience to change, for as angered or bitter,
Ere, to obey God’s Law with a trembling faith in its harshness
That I be saved from rebelling again, and we brothers but took shape
Staring in shadows for comforting sight in the relative darkness
Only desounding a whimper and breathing and sometimes a foot-scrape
Elsewhere enshrouded, but what I could see was him nervously sitting,
Minding my gaze but unfazed and deliberate, even as eager
Waiting for more to be said, but I spoke not, heaven permitting,
That I embarrass myself in verbosely, beleaguered,
Sentiment-talk, and the silence remained for a while between us,
Till I was asked, and for what didst thou change? so I, after a while,
Thought that, since good only is classed in intelligi’ble genus:
Only can good be distorted and only the sacred defiled
After betraying the Lord in my sins, each rainless and dryly,
God has bequeathed an inheritance greater than angels: repentance!
This is the dignity man has enjoyed, and in speaking so highly
Not of our nature, but even beyond it by favor’s transcendence,
What I am speaking had resonance then with the man in his slot-cell
That he responded, forsooth, I had also considered the One Law,
Seeing in figures and shadows a message He shows, (He does not tell)
Something becoming, and mighty, perhaps a removal of some flaw
Man introduced in his own soul; souls are the tasks we are given,
Strands of humanity cut for our weaving together with time-place
That we can carry pristine or, if man must needs be forgiven,
Purify through good penance and aided by copious divine grace;
When he had finished, I asked for his name, and he sniveled a little,
Saying with sadness, Baruch, and I turned him reply: I am Abel,
Sharing a mutual pause in the whispering night for the riddle
Which was in both of our names: for a man who has thankful a label,
Named for a joy of his parents afar and unknown to his captors,
While I bore such title of breath, but a spirit on borrow,
Such we commemorate speaking our names, as in militant chapters
Marching to orders without want, destined to die by tomorrow
Carrying banners for others in name and by deed and with power
Owed to our masters who name us; Baruch had inclined to the entrance,
Visible barely, and said if thou wishest to know if I sour
Thinking of gratitude etched by father to name his descendants,
Not in the slightest, for this is a name I myself have arranged it;
Greek I was born, from the isles of Asia and pagan by birthright,
Lost but my sister, and found in an east Alexandrian snake-pit
God as revealed to the Hebrews, His portion and permanent searchlight,
Seeking us strange back-sliders to come and be known to His kindness,
Which I responded to with Not in their foreign philosophies reckoned:
Truth is the hand at its work, or the plow; he agreed, And to find this,
What we have known at the bottom of every deed as it beckoned,
Gentiles must be alerted, and speaking it loudly, unthinking,
Opens the ears of the deaf and imbues all for heavenly smile,
Whilst for the hears unknowing, the pit underfoot — it is sinking!
Something about it was wisdom, but not in a singular file,
Likened to building an ark from the winds, sentimental in choosing,
Practical? hardly, and toward so guiled a mind — resurrection,
What had returned me to Earth, I imagined was not for defusing,
Only exciting the topic we share, and I need my correction,
Verbose as often I speak, so I kept it without any mention
Leaving the quieter air to remain to the sound of a rumble
Deep in the earth, and Baruch, but perhaps to alleviate tension,
Said I am certain the Lord has it such for, before it can crumble,
Gentile empires might be bestowed this vision, and surely,
Though we are captives, we both are of freedoms untouched by our fetters
Might we continue in virtuous life, and reject the impurely
What is conceived to be done to us bodily speaks of our betters —
Then I, as soon as Baruch had concluded ‘Tis much to us, Israel’s scandal —
They can thereafter be Jacob, and Jacob, their angel to wrestle;
Said From the forest itself, man carves for the ax of its handle —
Leans it against what trees he intends to remove for a trestle . . .
time passes in dungeon • an angel’s visitation
visions of the future • taking a beating as substitute
meeting Baruch • sharing our hope for justice