The Old Priest

Whatever am I,  the god hath made, for his design...on his portune. For, how could I look him in the eye, if I were but a painted thing all bought and bowed in pure pretend...to suit mine own? To sit upon a dais owed to god alone...how could I hope to play divine? 

That I came, naked to his world, is plain enough...that it is his, to clothe me in his way. Of such attire, as suits his eye. To compliment his nature, I await, and simply be a man...not playing at a man; not preening, pirouetting for my kind, nor staking everything one might become...on such a shameful 'seem'.

A man is not a costume, nor a mask. Far more, to be developed, to the task...of making him; that thing he is. So, when his raiment 'rive, his surplice holy white...his nimbus, blazing round his face. God's own...will clothe him in his covering cloth...to be ordained.

That this unfinished man be finished in that hour, of prayer, and placed before the alter...to be christened in the power, to become another kind. Sanctified and whole, humiliated soul...anointed last, redeemed and pure.

There, within the wood...he kneel, the flat of god's almighty sword laid light upon his skaptein*, that he reign, never more the lower man, but higher...be the hope. As there, forthcoming, he...be given of the cup, the blood...the flesh unleavened of the christ...then rise and go to serve his humble mission... as a cleric of...the word.

Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, at Deming, New Mexico

Art: By Russian artist, Andrei Shiskin

*skaptein...of Greek root, meaning scapula or 'shoulder blade', for that point, where the sword is laid, when knighthood is conferred.