“The Vision of the Martyr”
And I beheld, the Martyr clothed in lilies,
whose crown was a thorned wreath,
whose throne was a pulpit raised on bones.
He names himself Savior,
yet his wrists are banners,
his blood a veil.
The multitude bend their knees,
not to heal, but to inherit.
They drink his cup,
The cup of a conqueror
they eat his bread,
but the bread is the body.
He whispers: I died for you,
yet his death is a mask white fetters,
his sacrifice a ledger of chains.
For every lash he bears,
a darker lash is hidden.
For every thorn he wears,
a stranger is crowned in silence.
His gospel is a mirror of empire:
mercy on the tongue,
iron in the hand.
And the nation that marches in his name,
is blinded by whiteness,
their hymns are a smoke that chokes the earth,
their prayers a lash across the stranger’s back.
I saw their churches rise like battlements,
their altars fed on jealousy,
their pulpits thundering conquest as gospel.
And the Martyr smiled,
for his wounds were masks,
his thorned heart repressed empathy.
Thus the Martyr endured,
not to redeem but to disguise,
not to save but to sanctify—
and the multitude worshipped the mask,
and called their chains eternal.
Proverbs of the Martyr
The nail that binds me is sharper in your hand.
Every chain I wear is a crown you inherit.
To pity is to destroy.
My wounds are windows, but only the conqueror looks through.
The mask redeems nothing, but it sanctifies everything.
Empathy sharpened is law; compassion elevated is conquest.
The stranger’s back is my parchment; their scars, my gospel.
Those who kneel before me stand tallest in dominion.
Salvation is the leash by which nations are yoked.
What I sanctify, none may question; what I disguise, all will obey.
The holiest word is the one that erases another’s name.
The Apocalypse of the Martyr
And I saw the veil torn from his face,
and the mask fell away like ash.
The nations gasped,
for the wounds they worshipped
were wounds they themselves had carved.
The cup spilled not wine but blood,
the bread turned not to flesh but famine.
His cross towered; it was a gallows,
his crown burned as a brand upon strangers.
The churches cracked like tombs,
their hymns dissolved into smoke,
their pulpits thundered with silence.
And the Martyr rose,
but his rising was ruin,
his glory a shroud of conquest.
The Martyr stretched his arms,
the nations contracted,
the whole world had fallen
under a single sign—
a cross of whitened bone,
a mask without a face,
a tomb mistaken for eternity.
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