This has an advent-apocalyptic spirit to it.
Holy, Father, Light of all light;
Prophets sing of hope and dread,
When tasting all the Good Book said.
In the morning star: delight!—
Amid the darkness, He gleams bright.
This age’s time is storming near:
A thermal apocalypse
Will broil with smoky eclipse.
Crops will wilt from charring shears
As tides submerge coasts, wharfs, and piers.
The Cyclopes yawns in rich array,
While outside the vineyard crusts,
And is crushed by volcanic dust.
He sips his chilled Cabernet
And cheers as lions claw their prey.
The prophets knew this grand design
Was not fate or tossing dice:
The Cyclopes’ breath melts polar ice
And lolls in his golden shrine—
And sneers at thoughts of One divine.
This generation shall see all,
But those with two eyes shall see,
The Lion racing shadowy
Through this terrestrial ball—
And listen for His final call.