By Andrew R. Duckworth
What is that slithering about
Through the grass, through the ferns,
Into a small crack in the ground?
It seems that it’s that slippery snake
Quick with its tongue and deceptions flung,
Causing newfound minds to break.
Viper, whose bite delivers the venom
And made its way to humanity
To put a dangerous thought about them.
Who are those with their heads held low
Looking down upon the grass,
Not sure which direction to go?
It seems that those are the two
That took the words of that awful snake
As sure as words that must be true.
And what is that light so great
That I must shield my fragile eyes
Just before the Garden gate?
It must be that to which there are
No greater than that light
In all existence stretched so far.
And what is that to which the two
Who hold their heads in such deep shame
Are being sternly told to do?
They are being pointed away from here
Away from the comfort of things known
To which their destination is not clear.
And what happens now to those great gates
That open the way to paradise
And keep out those with confused fates?
Closed now and closed they must be
Because the two have transgressed
In a place that they can no longer see.
And so the Garden lies in wait
Until a Hero of Heaven
Comes to open forth the gates.