Tell me, Pan, you of the Wilderness
That space wherein all men must dwell
If they would know thy secrets
Tell me, who is this Christ
This upstart godling?
And Pan answered, slowly, grimly sad
A fool, your Grace, oh mighty Zeus
An embassy of Typhon
Tho he may know it not.
He lives his own lies.
Then what can he mean to us, old goat?
Again Pan answered, wearily
Two thousand years and more, Lord,
Of famine, pestilence,
Death for my children.
Grady L. McMurtry
Originally published in Thelema Lodge Calendar, December 1988