“If this were well weighed, that all things are but one emanation from power divine: If this were taken fully into the understanding, that we might be said to live upon, to live in this truth; we should live more Christianly, more cheerfully… in a few moments, than we do now in the whole course of our distracted time.” – Robert Greville, Lord Brooke

***

A warrior theologian

Heralds the Most High

With the flowering prose of his pen,

White plume dipped in red ink,

Love for his Lord 

Like lightning in his eyes,

Flashing off the breastplate

That guards his heart.

Yes, this is Lord Brooke,

An obscure squire’s son 

Turned rising radical

On the eve of Civil War,

Demanding purity, with sword drawn

Against those he deems serpentine.

He rallies his countrymen

To declare the apocalypse.

Right or wrong in his judgements,

His intentions are polished steel,

Sharpened on either side 

By God’s mercy and God’s wrath,

Seeking to save the New Israel

From a king’s delusions,

Gone to the dogs of heathenry.

Too much incense, Brooke believes,

Smothers the Gospel’s proclamation,

And so he will purge the air

In the Holy of Holies,

Beat down every door

And shatter every window.

Four bares walls, he says,

Are fitting for a house of prayer,

Where even a pulpit too ornate

May turn idolatrous.

He fears distractions from his Lord

Through his fickle senses,

Dreads sight and sound, scent and taste

May crowd out God,

So advocates an austere cell

To worship within.

And yet, he writes ornately,

Painting icons and building cathedrals 

With the tender fire of his words.

He falls into ecstasies,

Uncertain what overtakes him,

His soul prostrating irresistibly

Before the throne of grace

As he prepares to compose.

He intends a confession,

But is lifted up in sweet exultation;

He intends a Magnificat,

But dissolves into a sea of salt tears.

He cries out with longing,

“Let your sweet spirit sing, 

And we will dance: 

For certainly ere long, 

All tears shall be wiped away 

And perfect fruition of Love 

Will cast out Fear!”

He believes in love beyond war,

And war fueled by love

For the ultimate beauty,

The ultimate truth:

The Gospel of Jesus Christ.

Brooke romances, and is romanced

By his Crucified Redeemer, 

Like all other mystics of Christendom,

Even those of Rome that he rejects,

The spiritual ancestors he disowns.

They are one with him, praising his Christ,

The Rose of Sharon and the Lily of the Field,

A bed of spices where sinners lie down,

A golden apple to cure a poisoned feast.

Brooke is dazzled by the Light of the world,

Illuminating every saint’s eye

Like a glorious star, swirling in the void,

Grasped at by poor, palsied hands,

A peerless fruit, hung high on a tree,

And he proclaims,

“Life is light, 

And light is Truth, 

And Truth is conformity to God.”

And what is this conformity

To the rebel noble?

The Two Tables:

Love of God and love of neighbor,

For of all virtues, it is caritas

That makes a Christian what he is.

He flies upon the wings of affection

Into the arms of his adorable Jesus,

Confidant that such reckless abandon

Is superior to scholarly labor.

Like Aquinas, in a twinkling,

Brooke counts so much as straw.

Yes, like Galahad before the grail,

He is transported, ideals meeting origin.

He reflects, mesmerized,

“Love is lovely in God’s eye,

 He is styled the God of Love, 

The God Love.”

That love overflows, 

From heaven to earth,

And from lover to beloved.

He yearns for his stalwart lady

Holding the blossom of eternal life,

And he frets for their fifth child 

Growing daily in her rounded belly.

Like Julian of Norwich,

A mystic so utterly English,

Brooke is inspired by the feminine,

Insisting most saints are women

Because, though they fell first in Eden,

Their affections led them to the Open Tomb.

The enwombing of Christ is their work,

From the Annunciation to the Resurrection

And on down the ages of the Church.

Perhaps, during such contemplation, 

He thought of each new life

Enkindled in his lady through their love,

And saw a divine spark, like a star,

The same that enlightened the elect,

Bringing order out of chaos

Like the dawn of creation.

“Let there be light; and there was light.”

But chaos reigns in the realm,

And he has not scorned to cast himself into it.

Brooke will never see his family more,

Not in this world of dim glass.

He long ago submitted to God’s will:

“Everything that is, is good, and good to me.”

He resolved to live or die 

For Christ’s good pleasure,

Making obedience to Christ 

In life and death, his gain and triumph.

Called the cream of youth, 

He is cut down like wheat,

And the cause quakes

For he was the pure one amongst them,

And they know not his equal.

It is a a sudden death,

Shot through the eye in Lichfield,

Brains blown out, blood everywhere, 

As England soaks in the offering.

What a land of fire she used to be,

Dotted with beacons of faith!

But now that heritage is forgotten,

Settled into lukewarm laxity,

Her finest and fairest sown in the earth

Looking east, waiting to rise again, 

As their descendents insist,

“We don’t care about religion;

It’s just not what we do here.”

These offspring are civilized people

Too cynical for saints and heroes,

Too enlightened for bigots and prudes.

I say, give us a few honest “bigots,”

A few pious “prudes,”

A few fellows who dare to care

Whether they are bound for heaven or hell.

Perhaps their ghosts may yet return,

Break down the doors,

Fling open the windows,

And bring back England’s soul.