EDMUND THE MARTYR

Avellina Balestri

“And then the heathens became madly incensed because of this faith, for he always asked Christ to his help. Then they shot at him with missiles, as if for their sport, until he was entirely surrounded by their shots, like the spines of a hedgehog, like Sebastian was.”

The Passion of St. Edmund

I am a Christian king; the rood is my rod. I am a Saxon chief; my sires were wolves. My crown is gold-gilt; the Christ’s thorn-wound. What I would give for a blithe exchange! Hail, Lord, slave-silent and ashamed Who left His heaven and bore my hell, Raised high that I might be drawn up! God’s Son, a warrior, bound to the Tree A princeling young, trampling down Death Burning unconsumed, His heart; Bursting elder skins of wine Redder than the first dawn’s glow. Temple toppled, curtain tore, And Mary triple vigil kept Until the tomb-tied corpse arose, The first fruits of a sweeter Spring For them that have their being in Him. Spurned by His own, the scepter passed; Now heathens have been christened clean, Disciples throughout mid-earth made, Blood-bought and burdened joyously. From East and West, we come to feast,

A share in the bread, a sip from the brim, And the Lamb is our bounteous liege. At fifteen years, in throne I sat; The oil on my forehead shone Baptized anew, and born to rule I was like Adam, Steward of God, Image-bearer, breathing clay Forming words, and freeing worlds, Bestowing names that mark out men But Adam fell by bitter food, And crowned himself a garden-god Like the serpent, weed-winding, And leaf-clothed, he wore his woe But naked I lie upon chapel floor Humble before the Savior stripped, The Word which opened not His mouth. I wish His heart to fill my breast, Stern as soldier, meek as monk, And give me good news for the poor, For I would bind the leper-sores And banish bribes from silver tongues This to my people I would give: Justice, and a listening ear Heeding complaint, upholding right The Word of God upon my lips Like David, with his psalm-strung lyre, Wrought in my books and memory. For thirteen years, peace reigns with me But destiny will close its grip. War-wolves ride the ragged waves And at my borders howl These heathen hosts of thunder born Serve gods who read the ancient runes Betraying life to see their death And know the day of doom. But my God has already died And robbed the grave of gloom. There is nothing left to fear Beneath the Easter Son Nothing, but to follow Him Down into caverns deep Where the Light has pierced a path. Oh, dreadful blessing, glorious weight! How can this king endure it, And leave his folk undone? We fight, but are cut down like corn; The raiders reap their cruel rewards Slaughtering my thanes in sleep Ravaging wives, enslaving youths My strength cannot redeem their loss For it is severed at the root

I weep for those who served me well And forswear my own escape It was ne’er my way to flee And outlive those I loved But Christians must forgive their foes And pray that sinners live So I throw down weapons keen And face the foe unarmed. They strive to make me puppet king To pour libations to the trees But I have other wine to spill, A higher Nature to obey. My garments they divide, And my body they beat down Muddied, the mighty lord Broken, the bloodied warrior Club-crushed, bone-bruised Dragged through frozen field, A sacrifice for harvest rich. My eight and twenty years are spent, And the ground cries out for food. I shall not live in sword songs That drench the drinking halls, Yet let my name still make a mark Within my Maker’s mind. Bound am I to living oak, Sacred wood of heathen rite. Arrows fly like winter flocks, Beaks breaking skin and soul I am a beast, not a man A spectacle with spikes, A thistle with thorns. They watch me, my subjects, Weeping for their children They mock me, my enemies For worshipping weakness I cry out to my liege, the Lamb To give me strength in slaughter. “Jesus!” God saves! “Jesus!” Son of David! “Jesus!” Take pity on me! If You be the Christ, save me! Not this body, no… This shall be rent, and rot But this spirit, knit to Thee May yet have song to sing, And when the world is made new Weave me whole again.

Let it be that one man dies And the nation lives again. This, then, I give my people This alone I leave my people The head hewn from my neck, An offering to my people A sacrifice for my people Watched over by wolves, The symbol of my people The power of my people I give them a new birth of blood! I give them a martyr!