Tristan Robert Lange
Saint Patrick\'s Brood
It has long been said—
Almost as long as
saying things
Has been a thing—
That a Latin-speaking
Welchman,
A swain once swindled
By Illicit Irish Interlopers,
Came back to the
Isle of Emeralds
And thenceforth
Drove out the
Snakes.
Yet,
Snake repellant
Has never been
A propellant toward
Sainthood.
No.
This Patrick
Did no such thing—
Not in the slightest—
For he had love
For the “snakes”
Who gave him
The pasture,
Where he learned to
Pastor.
This Patrick—
Prostrated,
Not prominent—
Dug deep within
The den,
And then,
Found himself one
Among the brood.
Yet,
That never changed
His mood,
Toward his Lord—
Something his soul
Would never afford—
And,
Though freedom
Finally found
Patrick,
He
Freely found
His way
Back to his
Brood.
And there,
Not knowing he could,
He made friends of foes,
Formed sacred circles
That brought the above
Below,
And raised the beneath
Back
Above.
No matter
The tall tales
Told
Of a fierce Patron
Who had the pompous,
Pretentious,
Purpose
To successfully, and
Surreptitiously
Scatter serpents
From the Emerald Isle,
Just know that
The real patron’s purpose
Was to please God
With a sacrificial love
That lovingly laid familial claim
Upon his captors,
That dispatched spiritual descendantry
For the divine delivery
Of hope for a people
Who would one day
Bring that hope
To a dark age,
In need of
Light.
© 2025 Tristan Robert Lange. All rights reserved.