Thee by the
and by the Unity thereof.
O woe unto me, my God, woe unto me; for all my song is as
the dirge of the sea that moans about a corpse, lapping most
mournfully against the dead shore in the darkness. Yet in the
sob of the wind do I hear Thy name, that quickeneth the cold
lips of death to life.
O woe unto me, my God, woe unto me; for all my praise is
as the song of a bird that is ensnared in the network of the
winds, and cast adown the drowning depths of night. Yet in the
faltering notes of my music do I mark the melody of universal truth.
O woe unto me, my God, woe unto me; for all my works are
as a coiled-up sleeper who hath overslept the day, even the dawn
that hovereth as a hawk in the void. Yet in the gloom of mine
awakening do I see, across the breasts of night, Thy shadowed form.
O woe unto me, my God, woe unto me; for all my labours are
as weary oxen laggard and sore stricken with the goad, ploughing
black furrows across the white fields of light. Yet in the scrawling
trail of their slow toil do I descry the golden harvest of Thine effulgence.
O woe unto me, my God, woe unto me; for all the hope of my
heart hath been ravished as the body of a virgin that is fallen
into the hands of riotous robbers. Yet in the outrage of mine
innocence do I disclose the clear manna of Thy purity.
O woe unto me, my God, woe unto me; for all the passion of
my love is mazed as the bewildered eyes of a youth, who should
wake to find his beloved fled away. Yet in the crumpled couch
of lust do I behold as an imprint the sigil of Thy name.
O woe unto me, my God, woe unto me; for all the joy of my
days lies dishonoured as the spangle-veil'd Virgin of night torn
and trampled by the sun-lashed stallions of Dawn. Yet in the
frenzy of their couplings do I tremble forth the pearly dew of
O woe unto me, my God, woe unto me; for all the aspirations
of my heart ruin as in time of earthquake the bare hut of an
hermit that he hath built for prayer. Yet from the lightning-struck
tower of my reason do I enter Thy house that Thou didst build
O woe unto me, my God, woe unto me; for all my joy is as
a cloud of dust blown athwart a memory of tears, even across
the shadowless brow of the desert. Yet as from the breast of
a slave-girl do I pluck the fragrant blossom of Thy Crimson Splendour.
O woe unto me, my God, woe unto me; for all the feastings
of my flesh have sickened to the wormy hunger of the grave, writhing
in the spasms of indolent decay. Yet in the maggots of my corruption
do I shadow forth sunlit hosts of crowned eagles.
O woe unto me, my God, woe unto me; for all my craft is as
an injured arrow, featherless and twisted, that should be loosed
from its bowstring by the hands of an infant. Yet in the wayward
struggling of its flight do I grip the unwavering courses of Thy wisdom.
O woe unto me, my God, woe unto me; for all my faith is as
a filthy puddle in the sinister confines of a forest, splashed
by the wanton foot of a young gnome. Yet like a wildfire through
the trees at nightfall do I divine the distant glimmer of Thine Eye.
O woe unto me, my God, woe unto me; for all my life sinks
as the western Sun that struggles in the strangling arms of Night,
flecked over with the starry foam of her kisses. Yet in the very
midnight of my soul do I hold as a scarab the signet of Thy name.
O Glory be unto Thee through all Time
and through all Space: Glory,
and Glory upon Glory,
and Amen, and