THE “LITTLE BOY” PROPHECIES
A day of gladness in a day of sadness:
A time of joy in a time of pain;
A time of total realisation to a dazed world;
A lifted veil;
An agonising cry – “Too late!”
A door shut and locked but a window opened;
An abundance of rain in the time of fire;
Cooling showers in the furnace’s raging heat;
Desperate and feverish men bent on reversing time,
Time which in essence has returned to the beginning.
Eyes that now see, longing, longing for the days of blind comfort;
Ears that now hear,
longing, longing for ways to block out the sound;
Hearts that are melting like snow in springtime
Where tears mingle with blood,
longing, longing for the days of unmoveable stone.
crazing the minds of those who are drugged with noise;
Scratching pitifully amongst the bent and twisted wheels
of their present computerised chaos.
The sickening cold light of day, the day that no one wanted,
Save the LITTLE BOY who now wakes to his new day
And dries his tears of bewildered astonishment;
His dream at last comes true,
The five-year-old boy
Whose fresh laughter is soon diluted with grief
At the sight of his naked brother,
Now alone and angry in a foreign land.
Careless soul his brother was, festive-blown
Laughing away the drunken hours of his long blissful night,
Thoughtless of his anguished kin;
But now stone-cold sober
he snarls and lunges at the tail of the snake
As it quietly slinks away down the stinking sewer of the Great City.
Alas, too late!
He merely succeeds in cutting his hand on the grating.
High Priest of Light
Now clothed in the splendour of dawn,
How sad your task midst the dying embers of a ritual burning.
Your brave new world still barren as the Moon
But quivering with the desires of new life;
Go forth! Fulfil your task! Create anew!
– – – – – – –
The sign in the sky; the strange appearance in the heavens
Shall bewilder the nations of mankind.
The stairway let down shall become a permanent reality.
Few shall tread thereon whose homesteads rest below,
Though many shall try.
A man shall say to his friend,
“Where can we go to hide? I need time to think this out,”
But the answer shall come – “All escape routes are now closed;
The wheel is slowly grinding us all to powder.”
The Family in the Upstairs Flat
Descends the Stairway in a steady stream,
Striking terror into the hearts of men;
An event unprecedented in the history of mankind
on such a major scale.
O mind, mind, mind, executive, tutored, and trained,
but so tragically blind;
Was my caterpillar so loathsome a thing
that you had to tread it underfoot?
And yet, as by a miracle, it survived!
The chrysalis required no differential equation;
The dried remains attracted no change in the Stock Market index;
The commonplace hardly warranted a Parliamentary Debate;
But slowly, New Life emerged where it was least expected,
And then it was too late! Too late! Too late!
The mathematician’s book was closed,
So also were the Stock Exchange doors,
And the Politicians argued,
Not amongst themselves – – – But with angry disappointment
They buttonholed the high priests of men’s religions
And demanded a satisfactory explanation,
But none was forthcoming.
The family car pulled up at the traffic lights,
Now eternally red;
The smoke ceased to rise from the factory chimney,
And the machines became still.
The world no longer needed plastic raincoats.
The arms race stopped;
The “runners” saw those at the finishing post
Lay down their tapes in disgust and go off home.
The spaceship designed for the Moon
was quickly re-routed to Mars.
But down in the village market, questions were being asked,
And the Little Boy who answered, was full of hope and certainty.
And up in the hillside huts
Shepherds gathered round the Strange Little One
Who filled them with joyful news they were hardly able to believe.
Deep in the shanty town’s filth
The crowd gathered round the Stranger’s Seat
To hear equally strange words,
For nothing quite like this had ever before transpired.
And the sun looked down and smiled at the newly fertile earth
As fresh green leaves appeared.
The Gardener had completed His task,
And Winter now past, Springtime fully justified His toil.
O bubbling spring!
Well up your stores of life to swell and burst the seed;
Let the New Earth vibrate
With the harmony of Twelve Dozen Brightly Coloured Days!
– – – – – –
Begone, foul thorn!
Nevermore will you draw blood.
As if man’s iron were not enough to pierce my Son,
You had to crown His brow.
But in that very act you signed your own death warrant.
The Fullness of the Seasons has now arrived,
And creation’s bondage lifted, and so, begone foul spike!
Away, away from the earth you thorns and thistles!
Nevermore will your nettles and prickles be seen!
At my command you shall go! At my word you shall wither!
Never again to grow, never again to rise.
For the sake of my Little Family, I shall banish you from my sight.
And those whom I have chosen shall jump for joy,
And birds of every feather shall sing new songs of praise,
Blending together their vocal chorus
At the moment of earth’s sudden freedom;
And the Little Boy shall make a garland of new flowers,
Unremembered by mortal man,
And place it over his Mother’s head for the sheer joy of living,
And his Father shall lift him high in His arms
To show the world the glory of simple beauty.
O thornless Rose of Sharon!
How serene you look in the springtime of your New World!
Open wide your petals and let man see
The Priceless Treasure locked within your flower,
The White Stone, the Stone of Tin,
Surrounded by rose-red fingers, fresh with the scent of heaven;
A threefold freshness to lessen the burden of man
In the day of his sudden awareness;
A threefold breath of heaven throughout the days of fire,
Till the One who created her shall gently pluck her
To wear as the Signet Ring on His own Right Hand.
– – – – – – – –oOo– – – – – – – –
Bruce Woodley of “The Seekers” wrote the following song, and one cannot help relating it to the “Little Boy” of the above prophecies, and his “long night” of tears, waiting for the Lord’s intervention.
THE SAD CLOUD
What am I to you? What am I to do?
Now summer’s almost through in September?
For love has come and gone, didn’t stay for long,
One thing I will always remember –
When the green whisp’ring leaves had called your name,
The gentle sighing winds they did the same,
Now the sun has left the sky, and for no reason why
A sad cloud is crying tears of rain.
We stood and watched the rain, perhaps we will again,
For no one knows what’s coming tomorrow,
One day you may find that I am close behind,
Wherever you may go I will follow –
And the green whisp’ring leaves will call your name,
The gentle sighing winds will do the same,
Now the sun is in the sky, and for no reason why
The sad cloud is crying itself away.
– – Now the sun is in the sky, and for no reason why
The sad cloud has cried itself away.