All Fathers of our early times
harked well to nature’s ghostly call:
give blood, and sing your sacred rhymes,”
that gifts may from the heavens fall,

All Fathers of our champions,
ill-augured by divining boards,
did immolate for pantheons
and bathed in shadows from their Lords

All Fathers of the Jewish Race,
discerning whom the Lord had hailed,
took spotless lambs to temple’s base
to bleed, and sprinkle – tho’ now veiled.

All Fathers of Imperium
beneath the scarlet-dripping grates
did walk (with Mars’-Delirium),
ensuring triumph at the gates.

All Fathers of all Men were right
to wash in blood as Sacred Bath:
an immolation, to delight
in this: their Life, their hidden path.

The Father of the Unknown God
has whispered in our waiting ears:
“Fear not — I, coming from abroad,
shall reap the fruits of all your tears.”

The Father of the Heav’ns above,
not sweighed by our astrology,
has raised a Kingdom in His Love,
his sole required technology.

The Father of the Hebrew Tribe,
drawn on through barren desert-land,
cannot forsake His first-loved Scribe,
nor that great Covenant disband.

The Father of the Gentile Hosts,
— despite protesting, and their doubt
of mercy dawning on the coasts —
has scourged their hate with His (Love’s) Knout.

And when the Son of God the Father,
Readying (All Souls to save,)
Himself, took bread before His Brothers;
spoke, and His own Body gave.

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