Within a horrid, bloody river,
The sight of which would make men shiver,
Stands the haunted island, Hell,
A vague, misshapen, crescent sliver.
Upon the island rings a bell,
Sounding out a constant knell,
As specters walk the skull-lined path,
Shrieking curses, hearts to quell.
Satan sits within his bath,
And on the specters vents his wrath,
Drinking blood from a blackened grail,
Devouring all the slaves he hath.
Across the island blows a gale,
And in the wind the spirits wail,
As slimy snakes crawl ‘cross their bones,
They groan, though none will hear their tale.
Throughout the halls crawl withered crones,
Trying to polish black flagstones,
While demons put them to the whip,
And walls resound with cracking tones.
Such is the isle of Hell’s firm grip,
Awaiting some at the end of life’s trip;
For, if they let their morals slip,
They’ll join this hellish fellowship.
|
Above the isle is heaven’s lip,
Where sails a saintly, golden ship,
Upon a mirthful pleasure trip,
Far removed from Hell’s vile grip.
The air is filled with baritones,
That supersede Hell’s ghastly groans;
With praises and good fellowship,
They sing their songs in trumpet tones
Angels drink ambrosia, pale,
To ease their cares of long travail;
While sitting down on holy thrones,
They rest as wind fills up the sail.
They look below the vessel’s path,
To survey Hell’s vile aftermath,
And, smiling, watch the living tale,
Of those who cheat the island’s wrath.
Above the ship the Great Ones dwell,
Father, Ghost, Emmanuelle;
Carrying out the tasks each hath,
Within their shining citadel.
There resides the great forgiver,
Far above the bloody river;
Far above the island, Hell,
Lives creation’s prime life-giver.
|
