Confession of Hopkins

Your power is mighty and Great my Dark Master and there is no vessel that would fill up thy wisdom.
As that power is infinite and we are but simple toys to thee.
I prostrate myself at your feet. Thrice unworthy dog that I am.
Be my witness, sense my mortality and grant me my one wish and let these words burn my tongue in insolence. These Teachers you send me to define thy knowledge and bring to us your words of fire are lacking.
They preen and pamper themselves, they disgust me and yet I am not to lay one command or accusation upon them. They call upon you in there thin voices and you do not answer them.
This defines thee within me.
What are you?
The lowest, most absent, most powerful, the highest.
You bring an age upon us that we never see or touch.
Serene perhaps and yet violent to feel.
You find me and yet are always within me, without purpose.
What do we owe you that we may pay back to forget lust?
Enter my sour heart and fill me with your wisdom.
Let me forget the thoughtless acts that we act.
Embrace me and let me see that which is within.
Despise me and let me feel that hate within you as it is within me.
This living death, this ache of forgotten compassion.
Richness abounds within the things you have made although not within me.
As i sleep i sense you close and i smile a little at first, a simple thing.
Yet my voice ceases and thought is abstract and i shake within the sheets.
The days change and men do suffer and die and you are left unchanged.
Veins i have that fill with ice at your touch, this essence purely yours.
Flow the tears and grip the sheet tighter and call to errant Fathers.
This day cast bones among the others and scrabble in the dust.
Let the infants cry their own tears and remember nothing, not a thing.
I rejoice about nothing for nothing is the food of the ignorant.
The crucifix they gave me hangs heavy at my chest and i ask why?
The clouds still move slowly and this England burns all the faster.
Below in the village the children laugh and run aimless.
Thus are our lives reflected in the subtle plays of youth.
We resent bitterly this act that even the elders scratch thinning heads.
To strike out in anger, to breathe the thicker air and gasp not.
To run with limbs that do not ache with the damp of English Autumn.
Let the rain fall upon me and my Horse, castigate me more, i care not.
The Wizards of this land lie deep within their mounds and we forget.
The innocence of youth wasted upon our heads, there is no remedy for mold.
Pull in the reins and steer a course for Habbingdon.
Let the tempers within that place be placated by my presence.
Twitch the shrouds upon your windows and shudder but bear my presence shallowly.
The memory of my visit will soon be gone as the years smooth the hurts.
For as you put life into me i take it from others in your name.
Let the mud splash upon this beasts flanks and soothe it rightly.
For the cold of the day will eventually be eased with warmth.
There is an Inn within this village with adequate stables.
As your Gods fair hand makes all things beautiful he casts a fist upon you.
To smash your sense of worth into nothing, to offer no fairness.
I will suffer quietly within the shadows of your guilty souls.

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