It’s Easter in Coronaland;
The empty malls hold silent air.
There’s paranoia on demand
For Easter in Coronaland.
The baby chickens make their stand;
And pastel rabbit eggs declare:
It’s Easter in Coronaland
In empty malls of silent air.
and as yet very early in the morning. I was standing, as it seemed to me, at the door of my own cottage. Right before me lay the very scene which could really be commanded from that situation, but exalted, as was usual, and solemnised by the power of dreams. There were the same mountains, and the same lovely valley at their feet; but the mountains were raised to more than Alpine height, and there was interspace far larger between them of meadows and forest lawns; the hedges were rich with white roses; and no living creature was to be seen, excepting that in the green churchyard there were cattle tranquilly reposing upon the verdant graves, and particularly round about the grave of a child whom I had tenderly loved, just as I had really beheld them, a little before sunrise in the same summer, when that child died. I gazed upon the well-known scene, and I said aloud (as I thought) to myself, “It yet wants much of sunrise, and it is Easter Sunday; and that is the day on which they celebrate the first fruits of resurrection. I will walk abroad; old griefs shall be forgotten to-day; for the air is cool and still, and the hills are high and stretch away to heaven; and the forest glades are as quiet as the churchyard, and with the dew I can wash the fever from my forehead, and then I shall be unhappy no longer.”
And I turned as if to open my gar
den gate, and immediately I saw upon the left a scene far different, but which yet the power of dreams had reconciled into harmony with the other. The scene was an Oriental one, and there also it was Easter Sunday, and very early in the morning. And at a vast distance were visible, as a stain upon the horizon, the domes and cupolas of a great city—an image or faint abstraction, caught perhaps in childhood from some picture of Jerusalem. And not a bow-shot from me, upon a stone and shaded by Judean palms, there sat a woman, and I looked, and it was—Ann! She fixed her eyes upon me earnestly, and I said to her at length: “So, then, I have found you at last.” I waited, but she answered me not a word. Her face was the same as when I saw it last, and yet again how different! Seventeen years ago, when the lamplight fell upon her face, as for the last time I kissed her lips (lips, Ann, that to me were not polluted), her eyes were streaming with tears: the tears were now wiped away; she seemed more beautiful than she was at that time, but in all other points the same, and not older. Her looks were tranquil, but with unusual solemnity of expression, and I now gazed upon her with some awe; but suddenly her countenance grew dim, and turning to the mountains I perceived vapours rolling between us. In a moment all had vanished, thick darkness came on, and in the twinkling of an eye I was far away from mountains, and by lamplight in Oxford Street, walking again with Ann—just as we walked seventeen years before, when we were both children.
From: Confessions of an English Opium Eater by Thomas De Quincey, 1821.
A White Rose said to an African Violet:
Purple darkness makes my day.
The Violet, showing forth her petals, spoke:
Let’s share some sun this May.
A transcendental tulip
is blooming in my garden.
Before the petals wither,
before affections harden,
I pray it may diffuse its scent;
so gloriously redolent.
Encouraging the faithful,
it blooms in any weather.
In sunshine or in shadow;
let us, elect, together,
enjoy its sanctifying smell
while warning careless souls of hell.
In Him we stroke the petal
That proves our own depravity:
the flower that declares our heart
apart from Christ, a cavity
where only evil may be found
by One who dares our depths to sound.
The second petal beckons
and sings of pure election;
where souls are freely chosen
by God’s divine selection.
(As yet not offered to the masses—
Unto whom His wrath now passes).
Thirdly shines the Limit
of Christ in His atonement:
benefits are thus withheld
in God’s eternal moment.
So let the worldling rant and bluster;
Raging will not dim the luster.
Fourth: shall the fallen Adam
hold out against omnIscience?
Will puny human being
Prevail in disobedience?
The Lord on high will hound you down;
His grace to place a golden crown.
Point five unfurls its essence;
as saints arise, and striving
shake off the dust and onward march—
though never quite arriving;
while God empowers to go the distance
Persevering with insistence.
Behold in full the blossom!
In Grace it shines, reflecting;
delighting in God’s wisdom,
the lead to gold perfecting;
Magnanimous floral alchemy
bestowing at last true liberty.
God arose and wrung His hands.
“Those Calvinists have got it wrong;
my will is shackled by human sin
and their chains are far too strong.
I gave them all free will—it’s true…
some choose to scorn my sacred Word.
I guess I don’t know what to do;
their human plans are undeterred
while my designs are all aborted;
no more need for intake lists.
My plans made void, my Truth distorted
by crypto-hyper-Calvinists . . .”
Distressed by celestial impotence
His angels wept and veiled their faces;
for there is nothing God can do
when man His perfect plan effaces.
The Lord continued, in His sorrow
acknowledging ineptitude:
“I’m guilty and my outlook’s narrow
in other words: I’m screwed . . .
Man is king—while I, poor servant,
exist to bless his mortal dreams.
Genie of the Bible bottle,
I facilitate their schemes.”
God sighed. “Oh that my wisdom could
redeem the lost, and punish sin
but I’m unable to get through.
(Besides, I’m semi-Pelagian.)
Humankind can vote me out,
fashion me anew from clay.
I will evolve to suit their fancy
growing with them day by day.
I want to help them— but it’s hard.
I just can’t do predestination.
Mortals twist my righteous plans
into abomination.
I’m no rigid righteous Sovereign—
don’t believe that Puritan hype.
I’m your life coach, here to offer
motivational tripe.
I’d love to finish what I started
but humankind won’t acquiesce.
First I need to ask permission
so our plans might coalesce.
Calvinism misinterprets
My essential need to please;
(sinful self-important twerplets—
ignorant of my unease…)
Tulip-breeding Dutch reformers
Sottish lairds and heretics
Presbyterian misnomers
reading the Bible for kicks
will never comprehend my purpose.
I am sworn to placate Man!
Offering my selfless service,
I’m doing the best that I can!
So burn a candle, say a prayer.
Let me prosper, help and bless you.
Intervene? I’d never dare.
I’m mainly here to confess to.”
CONNECT/HOOK 