He knelt, deep within the cavernous confines of the Mount of Zion. He hid there, battered by the repeated attacks of his foe. He was a Follower of the Way, and constantly under attack, though the strikes more visible in this world. The world of spirit. Those heavenly realms described by Paul in his letters to Epheses.
He was of average height, the Warrior, dark cloths his chosen attire, a stark-white trenchcoat hanging limply across the floor, spread out from his kneeling frame. He was wracked with sobs, his face pressed against the dirt floor.
One torch, set into the wall of the tiny mountain hollow, sputtered and cast eerie light over the Warrior. His quicksilver helmet lay beneath the torch, dented in many places, its former gleam replaced by a slate silver finish. His breastplate lay before that, marred with the stains of battle. Scorch marks and soot-stains revealed the places where those hateful arrows had touched him. Leaning against the wall was his shield, tower-like and solid, also scratched and riveted hatefully with the marks of the Enemys weapons. Impaled in the ground before the Warrior was his sword, dug point-first into the muddy rock that made up the hollows floor. Running up the blades surface were words, unreadable with the blood, red and something less human, that crusted the length of the potmarked and chipped blade.
The Warriors collapsed frame shuddered with his sobs, his head shaking back and forth as he whispered into the floor, tears running down his blood-streaked nose to drip onto the floor an inch below his face. He sniffed savagely as his whispering grew more fervent, his hands running through his dark, matted hair. As he sobbed into the floor, blood flaked from his hands to be caught in his matted scalp.
Outside, the howls of the Enemy and his minions grew louder. They were there, waiting for him to reveal himself. They laughed at him and his Master, mocking them both as one, at the Warriors defeat.
Eloi, Eloi, lama sabachtani?, he whispered, his head shaking back and forth. My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?
Suddenly he reeled back, sitting upright on his knees, no longer bowed to the cold floor but sitting ramrod-straight, eyes clenched shut against the tears streaming down his face to drip off his bloodied chin.
They dont even care!, he screamed, his sword-hand flashing out behind him, gesturing in the direction of the howls. They dont want You! Why must I waste myself to nothing for these?
He was momentarily drawn up short but another assault of sobs. He shook his head violently, tears flying from his face in droplets.
They dont love You! They help him hurt me!
He looked down at his hands, streaked with blood; red of his own, and the black of something decidedly less savory. My armor is haggard, my shield is thin, my sword is all but worn to the hilt.
He slumped back onto his heels, wiping his face with the heels of his hands.
Help me...
Then it came, slowly at first, a feeling of peace so penetrating that it surpassed the desperate tired he was feeling. He sniffed and wiped his eyes again, nodding his head as a notion came to him, to go outside and stand atop the mountain.
Shakily he climbed to his feet, turning to stumble up the tunnel and, finally, into the murky air outside. Smoke still filled the air, the smell of brimstone, blood, sweat, and oil. He kept his eyes downcast, not looking down into the valley below, turning to climb up the short path to the top of the mountain.
The Warrior climbed and, reaching the top of the mountain, finally raised his face to the sky. His eyes immediately blurred, filled once again with his tears.
For in the distance was what could only be described as a presence. Clouds rolling and boiling over one another concealed the presence, but the strength of its power was undeniable. In the murky pre-dusk, bolts of hot, white light flashed amid lines in the rolling, black clouds. A wind kicked up, a wind that tore shrubs from the dust of the dust of the eart and rolled rocks down the mountain, but the Warrior was unmoved by the wind, which carried away the sweat and stink of battle.
His knees shook and would no longer support him as the huge clouds rolled overhead, replacing the lingering clouds of smog and filth that had filled the skies. This one who would count himself amongst the Followers of the Way fell to his knees, his sobbing renewed with a greater intensity. His head snapped backwards, his voice crying unto the sky.
Save me! Save me from my own rage, from my humanity! Save me! Im more nothing than being!
The clouds churning seemed to slow as it settled overhead, filling the sky, horizon to horizon. A rock nearby exploded with the force of power in the air, lightning crackling from cloud to cloud at the same time.
The voice that came was unlike anything the Warrior would ever again experience in his lifetime.
You, My servant, have all ready been given the victory. This battle is a formality. Take heart, My child, and be renewed, for with you am I well pleased, and is my Son well pleased.
It was then, with his heart aching and his eyes shedding their tears, the Warrior on bended knee saw the Son of Man descending through the clouds, wrapped in a halo of golden light. Swirling about him was a heavenly host, angelic warriors to make the worst warriors of the hells seem lapdogs. Fierce in power and armored in wrath they swept down and into the valleys below, out of sight, shouting as they flew, Glory to God in the Highest!
Then the Son looked at him and, though the Warrior could not make out his face from the distance, he knew His eyes had fallen upon him. And then the Son smiled, saying, Well done, My good and faithful servant.
Then His eyes left the Warrior, who collapsed onto his face, stricken of words.
Then the Son of Mans voice filled the air, saying It is finished.
Suddenly a cry went up from far away, a half-choked cry of desperate love. The Warrior raised his tear-streaked eyes to a second mountain-top, distant. Standing atop the crest was a figure in a white coat, thrusting a quicksilver sword towards the sky, jumping and yelling with all his might.
A burst of joy never to be felt by those who read this until the day we ourselves witness it ran through the Warriors chest. Suddenly he was on his feet with his sword in his hand just as suddenly, thrusting it towards the sky and yelling, yelling until he lacked the breath to yell. And there were others, on mountain tops all around where these fellow Warriors had climbed from their hollows and places of refuge in the mountain of the Lord to witness his passing, the battle won.
For He said: It is done. I am the Alpha and the Omega, the Beginning and the End. To him who is thirsty I will give to drink without cost from the spring of the water of life. He who overcomes will inherit this, and I will be his God and he will be my son. But the cowardly, the unbelieving, the vile, the murderers, the sexually immoral, those who practice magic arts, and idolaters and all liars -- their place will be in the fiery lake of burning sulfur. This is the second death.
Amen. Come, Lord Jesus.
The grace of the Lord Jesus be with Gods people.
Amen.
He was of average height, the Warrior, dark cloths his chosen attire, a stark-white trenchcoat hanging limply across the floor, spread out from his kneeling frame. He was wracked with sobs, his face pressed against the dirt floor.
One torch, set into the wall of the tiny mountain hollow, sputtered and cast eerie light over the Warrior. His quicksilver helmet lay beneath the torch, dented in many places, its former gleam replaced by a slate silver finish. His breastplate lay before that, marred with the stains of battle. Scorch marks and soot-stains revealed the places where those hateful arrows had touched him. Leaning against the wall was his shield, tower-like and solid, also scratched and riveted hatefully with the marks of the Enemys weapons. Impaled in the ground before the Warrior was his sword, dug point-first into the muddy rock that made up the hollows floor. Running up the blades surface were words, unreadable with the blood, red and something less human, that crusted the length of the potmarked and chipped blade.
The Warriors collapsed frame shuddered with his sobs, his head shaking back and forth as he whispered into the floor, tears running down his blood-streaked nose to drip onto the floor an inch below his face. He sniffed savagely as his whispering grew more fervent, his hands running through his dark, matted hair. As he sobbed into the floor, blood flaked from his hands to be caught in his matted scalp.
Outside, the howls of the Enemy and his minions grew louder. They were there, waiting for him to reveal himself. They laughed at him and his Master, mocking them both as one, at the Warriors defeat.
Eloi, Eloi, lama sabachtani?, he whispered, his head shaking back and forth. My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?
Suddenly he reeled back, sitting upright on his knees, no longer bowed to the cold floor but sitting ramrod-straight, eyes clenched shut against the tears streaming down his face to drip off his bloodied chin.
They dont even care!, he screamed, his sword-hand flashing out behind him, gesturing in the direction of the howls. They dont want You! Why must I waste myself to nothing for these?
He was momentarily drawn up short but another assault of sobs. He shook his head violently, tears flying from his face in droplets.
They dont love You! They help him hurt me!
He looked down at his hands, streaked with blood; red of his own, and the black of something decidedly less savory. My armor is haggard, my shield is thin, my sword is all but worn to the hilt.
He slumped back onto his heels, wiping his face with the heels of his hands.
Help me...
Then it came, slowly at first, a feeling of peace so penetrating that it surpassed the desperate tired he was feeling. He sniffed and wiped his eyes again, nodding his head as a notion came to him, to go outside and stand atop the mountain.
Shakily he climbed to his feet, turning to stumble up the tunnel and, finally, into the murky air outside. Smoke still filled the air, the smell of brimstone, blood, sweat, and oil. He kept his eyes downcast, not looking down into the valley below, turning to climb up the short path to the top of the mountain.
The Warrior climbed and, reaching the top of the mountain, finally raised his face to the sky. His eyes immediately blurred, filled once again with his tears.
For in the distance was what could only be described as a presence. Clouds rolling and boiling over one another concealed the presence, but the strength of its power was undeniable. In the murky pre-dusk, bolts of hot, white light flashed amid lines in the rolling, black clouds. A wind kicked up, a wind that tore shrubs from the dust of the dust of the eart and rolled rocks down the mountain, but the Warrior was unmoved by the wind, which carried away the sweat and stink of battle.
His knees shook and would no longer support him as the huge clouds rolled overhead, replacing the lingering clouds of smog and filth that had filled the skies. This one who would count himself amongst the Followers of the Way fell to his knees, his sobbing renewed with a greater intensity. His head snapped backwards, his voice crying unto the sky.
Save me! Save me from my own rage, from my humanity! Save me! Im more nothing than being!
The clouds churning seemed to slow as it settled overhead, filling the sky, horizon to horizon. A rock nearby exploded with the force of power in the air, lightning crackling from cloud to cloud at the same time.
The voice that came was unlike anything the Warrior would ever again experience in his lifetime.
You, My servant, have all ready been given the victory. This battle is a formality. Take heart, My child, and be renewed, for with you am I well pleased, and is my Son well pleased.
It was then, with his heart aching and his eyes shedding their tears, the Warrior on bended knee saw the Son of Man descending through the clouds, wrapped in a halo of golden light. Swirling about him was a heavenly host, angelic warriors to make the worst warriors of the hells seem lapdogs. Fierce in power and armored in wrath they swept down and into the valleys below, out of sight, shouting as they flew, Glory to God in the Highest!
Then the Son looked at him and, though the Warrior could not make out his face from the distance, he knew His eyes had fallen upon him. And then the Son smiled, saying, Well done, My good and faithful servant.
Then His eyes left the Warrior, who collapsed onto his face, stricken of words.
Then the Son of Mans voice filled the air, saying It is finished.
Suddenly a cry went up from far away, a half-choked cry of desperate love. The Warrior raised his tear-streaked eyes to a second mountain-top, distant. Standing atop the crest was a figure in a white coat, thrusting a quicksilver sword towards the sky, jumping and yelling with all his might.
A burst of joy never to be felt by those who read this until the day we ourselves witness it ran through the Warriors chest. Suddenly he was on his feet with his sword in his hand just as suddenly, thrusting it towards the sky and yelling, yelling until he lacked the breath to yell. And there were others, on mountain tops all around where these fellow Warriors had climbed from their hollows and places of refuge in the mountain of the Lord to witness his passing, the battle won.
For He said: It is done. I am the Alpha and the Omega, the Beginning and the End. To him who is thirsty I will give to drink without cost from the spring of the water of life. He who overcomes will inherit this, and I will be his God and he will be my son. But the cowardly, the unbelieving, the vile, the murderers, the sexually immoral, those who practice magic arts, and idolaters and all liars -- their place will be in the fiery lake of burning sulfur. This is the second death.
Amen. Come, Lord Jesus.
The grace of the Lord Jesus be with Gods people.
Amen.