It is cold within the nether skies;
Yet I flow through the darkness streaming
Down to where, in stoupor screaming
As her labor bursts her thighs,
There is blood and pain and – there it lies!
With a frightened passion churning
In my soulless body, burning
Vortex of unholy yearning,
Gaze I on the sightless eyes.
Then, just ere the infant’s natal cries
Ring out into the still, black morning
With it’s fright and lethal warning,
Time and space of matter scorning,
Sheath I in this new disguise!
Thus it is that none of Fairey ever dies.
Though the sacrament be spoken
With the eucharist for token
It is so they may be broken
By the art the elfin plies.
— Grady L. McMurtry
Note: Originally published in Thelema Lodge Calendar, March 1992.