I have paused, once more, at the Number Seven, for there are seven deadly sins which every mortal must purge themselves from, before the ascent, and there are seven corresponding virtues, four classical ones, and three theological ones, which (no doubt), ingenious readers can correspond in various ways to each of the deadly sins. The seven spirits which guard Heaven, and must be taken by storm, will fall with the aid of the Queen of Revelation, Mary, High Priestess of Heaven, who rules the lower waters and has become the upper ones. I have written several poems to her over the last year, and this one is from a fairy tale I am writing for my children, in which the main character is named Anna May, and who is acting as a symbol of Queen Mary, on behalf of those under her care.

War in Heaven

The angel sang her questions bold,

And Anna answered as of old.

The time was written, and was fitting:

Storm against the gods of old.

For many swarmed about that flood,

The evil, neutral, and the good,

Catching souls for food unholy.

Rulers in thrones and power most crude,

Each of the strong and original seven,

Held blades from world-heart riven,

They held the gap, and sealed the trap,

Which runs from earth to heaven.

Dozens under them, the decan twelve,

Hundreds beneath them, who delve,

Into the secret hearts, and inner parts,

Stubborn as dwarves, angry as elves.

They guard the purity of space,

From all the failure of the doomed race,

And test the ones, who dare the run,

Against the suns, into God’s face.

Behold their wrath, how beautiful and strong,

Fashioned of our faults, our sins’ song,

Their dreadful shade, from us is made,

They or us must die to free our wrong.

One cometh, shall come, always treading,

She who rules heaven, the wedding

Of the moon and sun, mercy-justice One,

Herald of a brighter Sun unebbing.

Who is this who faces the Seven?

Who is this warlike maid of Heaven?

First falls great Pride, and then Falls his Bride,

Envy who breathes the green fear-raven.

Lightning struck again, the maid grew proud,

Proud of how it must be done and loud

Grew the zeal of her heart, and the sword in art,

Struck through and through wrath’s shroud.

Angry then, she sprang against the cherubim

Dark who mock despair of those in Lim:

Froze the fire of sloth with beauty wroth,

The silver fire rolled rippling through the Dim.

Peaceful now in dance she turns,

Calm she clasps the angel and she burns,

Lightning again, against the dun gods of sin,

Waning Greed falls as she yearns.

Two bolts more she snares of angel fire,

Herself she rules complete, a Lyre

She weaves and plays, the arrows ray

The one who makes wine a fire.

The last did fall as one long dead,

She of beauty great, but inward bled,

The terrible one, whose power to stun,

A fire within must quench instead.

Anna flickered fire and stood the queen

Of heaven cold that night, between

The living and the dead in fright,

She whom Sun and Moon made clean.