A good blog post by the Hyacinth Girl, in which I’m quoted. It opens,
“Scrolling through my Twitter feed the other day, I came across this picture posted by the History in Pictures account. It’s a box of wedding rings found by liberators at a concentration camp in 1945. Each ring belonged to a person, and each person disappeared into the camps….”
Again comes the cry, again comes the mourn,
Clutched fingers in hair over flowers forlorn;
Candles all lit till the night wetly glows,
Coffins wrapped neatly in black satin bows.
Shadows beg mercy where mercy’s unknown,
Prayers and peace offerings all fruitlessly sown,
The desperately hoping more love will suffice
For those taking no less than blood sacrifice.
There’s left but one answer to those who love death,
Whose sword demands kneeling until the last breath,
Those blinded to reason, faith shrouding their eyes
Till torn from their skulls, their creed’s final prize.
There’s left but one choice, for those who love life,
In answer to those sworn to murder and strife:
When faith-deafened minds every argument shun,
When no word can turn what no logic has won,
When pleas have been met every time with a gun—
Swift granting of death is the deed sooner done.
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Oh, but you are an artist ~ you are the sculptor of your character, the painter of your style, the composer of your attitude, the architect of your future, the writer of the story of your life.
Enjoy Genesis, Part I of Idolatry …
In the twilight of the Roman Empire, a sculptor struggles to keep an 800-year dream alive while honoring the love of his life and raising his adopted son. Part I of the epic five-part Idolatry saga, the story of a wealthy young heir and a devout Christian girl who find themselves at the heart of a 2400-year struggle for the soul of Western Civilization.
“Beautifully written, on the order of Ken Follett’s Pillars of the Earth, with the historical insight of James Michener, it brings to life a time of great thought, great art, and its clash with religious fanaticism. Cordair writes with a poet’s sense of scene and nuance and gives us a great deal of insight into the mind of a sculptor; I found this an exciting and easy read.” ~ Alan Nitikman
Genesis, Part I of Idolatry, is now on Amazon in paperback & Kindle editions here…
And came the hour for panem et circenses, for the promised bread and circuses, and the people’s demands grew louder until they were given, not as much as they wanted or expected, but it was what they were given, and they ate the bread while laughing in the circus at the fear and pleading on the faces below, faces which had once been above. They laughed and chewed as pale flesh was ripped and bones broken, as the dark blood pooled across the circus floor, and when the cries below had gone silent, the people drifted home, sated and mollified for that day and the next, praising their new emperor and forgiving him much, until they began to grow hungry again, and the emperor was slow in providing, and another rose up among them, promising to provide panem et circenses, and faces below which had once been above.
Character always matters. Always. The character of a man is who he is. Character is definition, self-made. It defines what a man will do, how he will do it, and what he will not do. Discount or dismiss the character of a man at your peril.
The predator preys at convenience. Awaiting opportunity, he employs camouflage, subterfuge, stealth, while studying and testing his targets’ weaknesses, vulnerabilities. The weakness of many is simply their failure, their refusal or inability to identify the predator for what he is, their failure to take seriously the threat of what he has proven himself to be. . . . The mind, too, fights or takes flight. The danger is in the mind taking flight while the body, vulnerable, remains. . . . The predator lies low, slinks in, bush to bush through the grasses until he is within the herd. The danger is sensed—the subtle sounds, not quite right, the unusual lines shifting through the tall blades. The wary few raise alarm. The herd stops, raising their heads, scanning, listening. But the stalker has stopped too, holding, waiting – waiting until their guard is lowered again. The prey always lower their heads again eventually, their hunger winning out over mindfulness.
Out of the thick silence, the dust boils and the strike is made. The screams of the dying will long remain with those who escape — until it is forgotten again, forgotten that the character of a man always matters. Always.