by HP


“We have plenty of colors in the palette of memory to paint the extremity of suffering, but for ultimate joy we have very few” – M R Newbolt, The Book of Unveiling

The human vocabulary for pain is inexhaustible, and there is an innumerable flurry of episodes painfully wrought in such masterful, decadent detail, that it touches the heights of human creativity. And of these authors, many are compelled by a blinding voice and construct beautiful cathedrals of pain, sweet as honey, yet built with a bitter architecture. The feast of spiritual delights is elusive, as was the Holy Ghost before the Word came into the world. There is still much redemption and expansion of His kingdom to come before ultimate joy is no longer described, but experienced by His children in their ultimate reward. There are pages and pages of expressive sufferings that rise to the mind’s glass roof. The forecaster comes from above withering from a cacophony of many voices rushing like a mighty river.

There was a figure whose skin was like fire and he wore a tunic of brilliant white that emanated a very bright light, and I could open my eyes but not focus on any one thing. His feet were fixed on each corner of the earth and between him grew bushes of lilies, white tipped in their coffin-like pods that were on the brink of releasing a faint aroma representing the innocence of the souls departed.

A culmination is more readily achieved when reaching down. Similarly, it’s easier to grasp a fistful of stones than it is to hold a cloud with the palms cupped together, the way one lowers a firefly into a crystalline jar. The divine projection of the soul into rushing winds that forecast things to come exists in a realm that is inexpressible, and whose completeness is non-associative. Spiritual delight is far less chronicled than its infernal counterpart, which invokes the senses in masterful verse that commands articulate surveys of descending torment.

The clouds of our forecast are picked up like stones and scattered across the sky where they await the interpreters of dreams to dream them. It has been said that the angel striding the ocean and the land [1] represents an illuminated letter and is in itself an invitation to write. In as much, the complete arc of the rainbow that the angel surmounts is transcribed in only a few words and ascribed universal significance.


1. Revelation, ch. 10