What does god do about the flow of obloquy that rises every day around his seraphims? Like a good tyrant gorged on wine and venison he falls asleep to the sweet sounds of our blasphemy. The sobs of martyrs and the beaten felon's cry provide intoxicating symphonies no doubt; despite the spate of blood at their sensuous bout, the heavens never have enough to satisfy -Ah! Jesus! Mind the garden and the olive tree! In pure simplicity, upon your knees you prayed to him who in his heaven laughed while you were splayed by hangmen pounding spikes into your live anatomy. When you saw how they spat on your divinity, the hoodlums of the guard, the filthy kitchen help, and when you felt the crowning thorns impale your scalp and cranium where dwelt your vast humanity? When your afflicted body's dreadful heaviness unhinged your weary arms, your pallid face ran wet and glittering with drops of mingled blood and sweat; when you were made a target of vindictiveness did you dream of those beautiful, those brilliant hours you spent to keep the promise of eternity? When on gentle ass, you rode triumphantly along the crowd-lined pavements strewn with fronds and flowers, when your great heart was swelled with bravery and pride, with mighty arms you whipped those merchants through the doors. When you were lord at last? And now, does not remorse thrust deeper than the soldier's spear into your side?
For me, most certainly, I shall be satisfied to leave a world where action fails to match the word; would I might use the sword and perish by the sword! Saint Peter denied Jesus...and he did right!
- C. Baudelaire
