Woe!
Woe to the old God!
Woe to Him!
For He knew not who He was!
And He knew not what He did!
The ancient, lost tomes speak of him most clearly;
His skin, the color of bronze
For wasn’t it He from which all beauty and luster originate?
His face, grizzled with hairs the hue of lightning
For wasn’t it His visage with which He commanded the skies?
His eyes, black as the deepest night
For wasn’t it He who had first seen the Heavens?
His hands, strong enough to hold up the sky,
For wasn’t His hands the ones which had molded all of eternity from the clay?
Wasn’t it?
So how could it be
The old God
Who had crafted the Heavens, Earths, and Hells,
Who had slain Great Rahab and used his body as the foundation of all,
Who had sliced His silhouette to create life,
How could it be,
That His own creations
Found Him wandering the desert like an old, blind fool!
His skin, old and rusted
For the winds He called stripped it bare.
His face, wizened and forlorn
For the days He created decayed all.
His eyes, muted and gray
For the stars He shaped had been dimmed.
His hands, scarred and calloused
For the aether He crafted tore asunder.
They found Him wandering the desert,
All the majesty of Him
Which had destroyed the vain kingdoms of man with but a glance
Which had flooded the Earths with but a gesture
Which had cast out Ba’al Zabul with but a presence
Gone!
They screamed and cried
For the first time knowing He could not hear.
They prayed to God
For the first time knowing He could not understand.
They raised their instruments
And fired.
For the first time knowing He could bleed.
Woe!
Is it true that He was once only one of 72 just like Him?
Is it true that He cast them all out?
Is it true that He only then proclaimed Himself the one true God?
What became of El?
Was he overthrown?
What became of His son?
Had he overthrown?
He was an old God
From an old time
He struck
But the lightning he called was scattered.
He ran
But His legs buckled under the weight of infinity.
He screamed
But the 12 tongues He used had been lost in Babel.
And thus
The men who had been wandering the desert like old, blind fools
Killed their God.
Woe!
When the Son ascended, how high did He reach?
Spheres above His father?
When the Son descended, how low did He crawl?
Dimensions below the mantle?
When the Son killed his father, did He cry?
Did he?
Woe!
Woe to the new Gods!
Woe to Them!
For They know not who They are!
And They know not what They do!
About the Author
Kevin Kopp is a college student double majoring in Radio, Television, Film and Advertising at the University of Texas at Austin. He produces and writes for multiple Texas Student TV shows and short films, including “The Understudy,” which was featured at the Hill Country Film Festival.
