Our prophet is our executioner by holy charge.
His cruelty is not pleasure, but divine mandate.
He stands before us like a sacred decree,
unmoved by desire, yet crowned by eternal providence.
He does not rise to meet us;
he merely stands, ordained.
He is a wall no hand has ever breached.
His severity is inherited, never adored.
He has not saved us;
he has only taught us the endurance of captivity.
He is the least merciful, granting us a higher reality.
His coldness is not absence, but the final form of ancient necessity.
He has not comforted us;
he has only shown us how pain is carried with dignity.
He is the most resilient, never succumbing to self-pity.
His pride is not arrogance, but the final refuge of humanity.
He knows all, for he has endured all.
He learned from himself;
never once did he seek refuge in oblivion.
He is not a peacemaker;
he wages wars within himself.
We do not witness them;
only fragments of light escape,
uninvited and unclaimed.
These fragments are sparks,
burning whatever receives them.
They are gifts as well,
though together they become our anthem.
They spring from bloody origins,
yet still they shine,
almost merciless in their brilliance.
No one has ever saved him;
he remained a wanderer.
He did not find God,
only one lesser than himself.
Everyone has always revered him as something greater.
No one before him had ever felt so truly godless, or so empty.
This is our hero, standing against heroism.
This is our tyrant, bearing no trace of sadism.
This is our angel, in service of selfless egoism.
― Atrona Grizel