LXXXI.

Then forth issue another Crew
(those being silencéd),
Who drawing nigh to the Most High,
adventure thus to plead:
“We sinners were,” say they, “’tis clear,
deserving condemnation;
But did not we rely on thee,
O Christ, for whole Salvation?

LXXXII.

“We did believe, and oft receive
thy gracious Promises;
We took great care to get a share
in endless Happiness.
We pray’d and wept, and Fast-days kept,
lewd ways we did eschew;
We joyful were thy Word to hear;
we form’d our lives anew.

LXXXIII.

“We thought our sin had pardon’d been,
that our Estate was good,
Our debts all paid, our peace well made,
our Souls wash’d with thy Blood.
Lord, why dost though reject us now,
who have not thee rejected,
Nor utterly true sanctity
and holy life neglected?“

XCI.

“Thus from yourselves unto yourselves,
your duties all do tend;
And as self-love the wheels doth move,
so in self-love they end.“
Thus Christ detects their vain projects,
and close Impiety,
And plainly shews that all their shows
were but Hypocrisy.

Dionysos Throws in the Towel

Aug15

εὐαἵ, εὐοἱ

IO ! IO !

The god of wine and mystic forest-mountain trances slides off his donkey with a thud, narrowly missing a holy pard, who growls when Dionysos grabs its tail.

His maenads begin to cry, casting their thyrsi in a despondent heap, rending their leopard skins amidst wails and sobbing as angels collect the pinecone tips and burn them. The angels now gather the dismembered wildcats and forest creature limbs, along with the bloody deerskins, into a separate pile.

Tambourines are confiscated next, numbered and assigned the initials of their respective Bacchante owner before being bagged as evidence.

The leaf-crowned god writhes in convulsions before the Pantokrator, babbling, begging for a bottle of Mad Dog and moaning piteously as he rips the grape-vines and ivy from his brow.

It’s all over, forget it, Dionysus sobs.
My maenads are murderous bitches anyway. . .

Don’t take it too hard, buddy says Pantokrator Christos.
Court will probably send you to a 16-week outpatient program, maybe prescribe some meds till you can get on your feet again. Would you like some support from a counselor, O Dithyrambos, white bull roarer of forest shadow, leaf-crowned youth of Nysa, great Bakcheios, panther-faced fawn-render—

But Bacchus cuts Him off:

Come ON man, don’t rub it in. Forget all those bullshit divine titles.
It’s over. I don’t even care any more…

His weary eyelids close and he grimaces. But suddenly a new and desperate hope surges in his wine-soaked brain as his eyes flash open:

Wait—if I do the program will they reduce my charges?