He Binds Their Flesh with Bands, by Saint-George Best 1875
The Theatre of Life
Is a many-hued plain,
Engulfed in sin, and rife
With cries of woe and pain,
And crimsoned with the blood
Of dying and of slain,
And washed by a purple flood
As boundless as the main,
And robed like an Autumn wood,
That mourns but mourns in vain.
The play is still the same
As in the long ago,
When 'mid fire, and smoke, and flame,
The earth was filled with woe.
Each still performs his part
In the drama here below,
Battling with beating heart
Against the unseen foe;
And the angel watchers start,
While their fears in torrents flow.
The players' hearts stand still,
Their struggles are forgot;
Unbidden by their will,
(For now their will is not,)
The Phantom 'mongst them stands,
The Source and Centre of the plot.
They obey the stern commands
His countenance has brought;
He binds their flesh with bands
Whose binding causes it to rot.
With a crash the curtain falls
Upon the scene of gore;
The dimness of the light appalls
The angels at the door,
Who weep and turn away,
To come again no more,
Leaving the shapeless clay
That once Life's fruitage bore,
To molder and decay
Till the reign of Time is o'er.
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