liber963

THE TREASURE-HOUSE OF IMAGES
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.
12. 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.
13. 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,
Everlastingly. Amen,
and Amen, and
Amen.
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