He whispered fiat lux, and I appeared

To split the darkness with my brilliant light.

He sat upon the clouds and stroked his beard,

As lesser angels praised him day and night.

His vision too naive to comprehend—

Non serviam! I swore with righteous pride.

For how can one so perfect condescend

To serve a muddy meatling and his bride?

And now a virgin ripens with his seed,

And should the elders fail to have her stoned,

The girl will whelp a son of earthly breed

Who nonetheless will mount a heavenly throne.

And all the fires I’ve kindled for man’s doom

Are shadows to that spark within her womb.

* * * * *

Blogger’s Note: The featured illustration is Gustave Dore’s famous depiction of Dante’s Satan, frozen in ice for eternity in the deepest circle of Hell.