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Mystery Of Toilbehold the mystery of toilO you who are taken in the toils of mystery the spade of the husbandman is the sceptre of the king at the end of labour is the power of labour I disport myself in the ruins of Eden ecen as Leviathan in the false sea and the sorrow that blackens your heart is the myriad deaths by shick I am renewd behold the mystery of toil O you who are takes in the toils of mystery all the heavens beneath me they serve me they are my fields and my gardens and my orchards and pastures my blood is wine and my breath the fire of madness i life myselfe above the crown of the yod I swin in the inviolate fountain glory unto the Rose and the Cross for the cross is extended unto the uttermost end beyond space and time being and knowledge and delight glory unto the Rose that is the minute point of this center she is Nuit the circumference of all and glory unto the Cross that is the heart of the Rose behold the mystery of toil O you who are takes in the toils of mystery the whirlings of the universe are but the course of the blood in my heart and its variety but my divers hairs that shick I think to be myself is but infinite number the change which you lament is the life of my rejoicing the instability which makes your fear is the waverings of balance by which I am assured |