In halls of thought where scholars tread,
A tale unfolds, with rumors spread.
Morton Smith, a name entwined
With Clement's letter, truths confined.
"Secret Mark," a gospel veiled,
In accusations, wrongly assailed.
Homosexual innuendo cast,
A shadow over scholarly past.
No evidence to claims so grave,
Nor paths in which the truth they pave.
To discredit, tactics unworthily wield,
In the sacred study’s field.
Parallel tales in history's grip,
Origen’s story, from Epiphanius's lip.
In Alexandria’s ancient sands,
A scholar’s life in critical hands.
Sexual deviance, falsely portrayed,
A weapon against the truths he swayed.
Origen, in wisdom's deep embrace,
Faced accusations, a disgraced grace.
A polemic charged with sexual scorn,
His reputation, unfairly torn.
Textuality and hermeneutic debates,
Shadowed by these baseless fates.
Rarely do scholars’ lives invade,
The realms where academic spades are laid.
Yet in Origen’s case, it seems,
Personal lives bled into scholarly dreams.
A "secret gospel," mystery’s child,
In Alexandria, imaginations wild.
Sexual aberrance, a theme so dark,
On scholars’ works, it leaves its mark.
Could this perception, ancient and deep,
Influence how we the sacred keep?
Casting shadows, long and cold,
On truths that history does hold.
Inquiry delves into murky lore,
Seeking what truths might lie in store.
Is there a link, a thread so fine,
Between personal slurs and the divine?
Alexandria’s tradition, rich and vast,
Through this lens, now we cast.
Scholars’ battles, not of facts alone,
But of lives, unjustly thrown.
Into the fray, where judgments leap,
Beyond the bounds where respect should keep.
Smith and Origen, in time’s long dance,
Victims of circumstance.
Let us tread with caution and care,
In how we judge and how we dare
To intertwine the scholarly with the personal,
In debates that should remain conversational.
For truth in history, complex and deep,
Requires a more respectful leap.
In seeking knowledge, let us be kind,
To the past and present intertwined.
May we honor the pursuit of truth,
With integrity, in age or youth.
And remember, in our quest to understand,
The dignity of every scholarly hand.
Opening Words: Clement's Favorite Saying from the Gospel
In ancient texts, where wisdom lies,
A saying under scrutiny ties.
Clement's gospel, a voice from the past,
"ἀγάπη καλύπτει πλῆθος ἁμαρτιῶν" cast.
"Love covers a multitude of sins,"
A phrase where deep inquiry begins.
Some seek inferences, hidden, implied,
In the realm of love, what truths reside?
Yet, amidst the scholars' keen debate,
A simple message might resonate.
Not a code, nor a secret inferred,
But a call to love, in every word.
Why delve for shadows, when light is near?
In love’s embrace, what is there to fear?
The essence of the gospel, clear and bright,
Illuminates the darkest night.
Not in judgment or in scorn to live,
But in love, and in love to give.
Homosexual inferences, some may seek,
Yet, love's language is not to the meek.
It speaks to all, in tones so grand,
Beyond the lines drawn in the sand.
For love, in its boundless reach,
A lesson it does faithfully teach.
In Clement's favorite gospel say,
A deeper truth lights the way.
Not about whom one may love,
But that love's grace, from above,
Covers sins, wide and vast,
In love’s embrace, all are clasped.
So let us ponder, with hearts wide open,
On the words of love, so eloquently spoken.
For in love, we find a common ground,
Where acceptance and peace are found.
And remember, as we decipher and discuss,
It’s love that covers all of us.
Origen and Mark
In the annals of ancient lore,
Where scholars ponder, explore,
A question echoes through time's hall,
Connecting Origen to Mark, if at all.
No evidence direct, nor clear,
Of a secret gospel, Mark held dear,
Or of a letter, lost to the ages,
Hinting at hidden, sacred pages.
Yet, whispers of a link persist,
In the shadows of history, a subtle twist.
Eusebius, with Origenist zeal,
A Markan lineage, did reveal.
In Philo’s Vita, a path he traced,
To Alexandria, intricately laced.
A tradition of Mark, so deeply sown,
In episcopal lines, quietly grown.
Origen’s commentary, some claim to find,
On Mark's gospel, a scholarly bind.
Yet, confirmation eludes our grasp,
As we seek to undo the clasp.
Conspiracy theories, some entertain,
Of Eusebius’s craft, in Arius’s reign.
But let us tread on firmer ground,
Where reason and evidence abound.
In the third century, let us place our faith,
In the Markan tradition's wraith.
Not fabricated, nor born of air,
But a lineage of faith, a scholarly affair.
Though direct links may never be proved,
The quest for understanding, ever moved.
By subtle indications, a potential thread,
In Alexandria's ancient bed.
Let us honor the past, with open eyes,
Seeking truth, where the mystery lies.
In history’s depth, a tale untold,
Of Origen, Mark, and traditions old.
Arius and Mark
In the shadow of Alexandria's walls,
Where history's echo softly calls,
Arius sat on a throne so stark,
In the ancient Church of St. Mark.
Claiming lineage, apostolic and pure,
His voice in the tradition, he assured.
Athanasius, with letters in hand,
Contradicted, took a stand.
Ἄρειος, to Ares, a name so bound,
Marcus to Mars, in echoes found.
Yet, Epiphanius, with a scholar's grace,
Countered Arius's claim, his place.
Βαύκαλις, where the cow herd grazes,
The site of St. Mark, history phases.
Outside the walls, where martyrs bleed,
In this sacred place, faith’s seed.
Epiphanius, with peculiar flair,
Drew from texts, sources rare.
In the Panarion, chapters unfold,
A story of Arius, bravely told.
Not once, but twice, the account is shared,
Of Arius's church, how it fared.
A place of worship, pre-eminent, revered,
In Alexandria's history, it appeared.
Through these tales of ancient lore,
The struggles of faith, the battles of yore.
In the streets where saints once trod,
Between the lines, we see the hand of God.
So let us ponder, with hearts anew,
The lessons from the past, to our present true.
In debates of faith, in history’s mark,
May we find our light, in the Church of St. Mark.
In ancient texts, where truths entwine,
Epiphanius takes us through time.
In chapters penned with careful hand,
The Melitians’ tale, at his command.
“There was one presbyter,” he writes,
To a church assigned, guiding lights.
Though many churches under the sky,
Their numbers grow, as time goes by.
Entrusted fully, a lone presbyter stands,
Even if another by his side lands.
This note, emphasized, a curious thought,
In the fabric of history, a knot.
Promising clarity, a future reveal,
In the chapter on Arius, the deal.
A narrative similar, yet freshly spun,
Under one archbishop, they are one.
Each church, a presbyter to guide,
In Alexandria’s spread, far and wide.
Yet, in this recounting, a detail missed,
The “another presbyter,” in the mist.
In the Church of St. Mark, a passing reference,
Left hanging, a narrative preference.
In the cow pasture, where saints once prayed,
The story of another, not displayed.
Epiphanius, in texts of old,
A story of faith, carefully told.
Yet, in the details, questions remain,
In the annals of history, an incomplete chain.
Let us wonder at what was unsaid,
In the shadows of history, lightly tread.
For in every line, a story untold,
In the Church of St. Mark, in the fold.
So, reader, ponder as you wander through,
The ancient tales, retold anew.
For in the spaces between the lines,
Lies the essence of divine designs.
In the annals of faith, a story is told,
Of Arius, and the division he bold.
Under Alexander, he served, a presbyter named,
Yet, by ambitions and visions, was inflamed.
"Alexander's presbyter," so they claimed,
By Satan's whispers, he was framed.
To start his own sect, a path laid bare,
A move that led to schism and despair.
Yet, in the texts of old, a curious note,
Epiphanius's words, carefully wrote.
Arius, more than a presbyter in sight,
Among his peers, a guiding light.
In the Church of St Mark, his influence vast,
As the head of the tradition, firmly cast.
Bishops pleaded, his return they sought,
A mere presbyter, they thought not.
His status, not just ideas of merit found,
But in his role, deeply profound.
The representative of St Mark, in Egypt's land,
His authority, by many, was grand.
Constantius, the Emperor, saw this too,
Not just ideas, but a role held true.
Legitimacy granted, not by debate,
But by the weight of St Mark's plate.
In the sweep of history, a tale unfolds,
Of beliefs contested, and divisions bold.
Yet at its heart, a story of power,
In the ancient church's towering tower.
Arius, more than a name in history's page,
A figure of influence, beyond his age.
In the echoes of chants, in the church's nave,
A reminder of the path, he bravely paved.
In the third century's fold, a title took hold,
In Alexandria's grasp, a story bold.
πάπα, they said, an archbishop's claim,
A title of honor, of reverence, the same.
Eusebius penned, with historical grace,
Dionysius of Alexandria, a name to embrace.
Acknowledging Heraclas, in letters of old,
A lineage of πάπα, in stories told.
The Romans observed, with keen eye,
This title, under the Egyptian sky.
In the fourth century's turn, they made it their own,
An epithet adopted, in Rome’s stone throne.
Alexandria proper, and regions beyond,
In claims of authority, they correspond.
St Mark’s Church, in the extra-mural air,
A division in faith, laid bare.
Christian life, in Egypt's ancient sand,
Was divided, by a complex hand.
Beyond the walls, where lawlessness reigned,
The Melkite’s comfort, increasingly strained.
Visiting the heart of Christian life,
Became a journey filled with strife.
For in the division, a story untold,
Of faith, of power, of a fold.
Yet, through the tension, a faith persisted,
In challenges, it twisted and listed.
The story of πάπα, in history's weave,
A testament to what believers achieve.
In the annals of time, a lesson to find,
Of unity and division, intertwined.
For even in discord, a common thread,
In the pursuit of faith, we are led.
Two Chairs Not One in Alexandria
In the heart of Egypt, where the Nile flows wide,
Two chairs of authority, side by side.
The catechetical school's obscure chair,
Its role in faith, a matter rare.
Whoever sat, in that ancient seat,
Was crowned bishop, a feat complete.
In Rome, a similar tale unfolds,
Deacon and bishop, titles bold.
A dual bishopric, from the start,
“Πέτρος καὶ Παῦλος,” not apart.
Hegesippus speaks, of successors twain,
“Λίνος καὶ Κλῆτος,” in Rome's domain.
Epiphanius mentions, with careful tone,
“Alexander and Arius,” not alone.
Satan’s whisper, a split to incite,
A presbyter’s rebellion, brought to light.
Yet, in Egypt's ancient, sacred mark,
Stood the Church of St. Mark.
A claim to authority, ancient and deep,
Beyond the bounds of any bishop's keep.
The Church of St. Mark, unique in its stand,
With another presbyter, at its hand.
Epiphanius, from his source, did read,
Of a power-sharing need, indeed.
For safety's sake, in a region fraught,
A dual role, the church sought.
Peter’s journey, to the evangelist's side,
In attempts to unite, he died.
This ancient tale, of power shared,
Of bishops and presbyters, how they fared.
In the weave of faith, a pattern clear,
Of unity and division, both near.
So remember the chairs, in Egypt’s sand,
And the dual roles, that faith demands.
In history’s echo, a lesson to find,
Of leadership shared, in faith combined.
In the weave of ancient faith, a thread,
Marcosians, in Alexandrian bed.
Irenaeus, with a scholar's care,
Notes their rites, uncommon, rare.
Their baptism, a second grace,
In Mark's gospel, they find their place.
The mother's plea, for sons so dear,
To sit by Jesus, without fear.
The Anonymous Treatise, in words refined,
The Marcosians' path, again we find.
To the Gospel of Mark, their appeal,
Their faith, in baptism, they seal.
Philosophumena, with insight keen,
The bishop's role, in this scene seen.
A second baptism, a rite so bold,
In pairs, the clergy's faith retold.
Redemption’s baptism, a mysterious rite,
From Mark’s narrative, brings to light.
Priests or bishops, in waters deep,
A dual immersion, their souls to keep.
Marcionite visions, of Paul and Marcion,
By Jesus’ side, a holy liaison.
A reflection of this ancient belief,
In baptism’s waters, they seek relief.
Aerius, once a bishop, now deposed,
Around him, followers he composed.
For he saw, in Epiphanius's tale,
A dual seat, beyond the veil.
"A bishop and a presbyter, each a throne,"
In Aerius's words, this truth shone.
Even without a title’s weight,
A following gathered, by faith, not fate.
In the early church's complex weave,
These stories of baptism, we perceive.
A tradition of pairs, side by side,
In ancient rites, they abide.
So, in the echoes of faith's long call,
These practices, to mind, recall.
In history's depth, a shared belief,
In baptism's waters, a brief relief.
Tales of Markan Perversity
In Alexandria’s ancient streets, where history speaks,
A tale unfolds of faith's peaks and creeks.
Haas's insight, a topographic guide,
Reveals where orthodoxy and geography collide.
The Markan tradition, in its second act,
With Constantius’s choice, a fact.
George of Cappadocia, πάπα named,
With a vast library, his erudition famed.
Yet, his first act upon the seat,
Was not of learning or of feat.
But a gathering of herdsmen and shepherds, a crowd,
With dissolute youths, loud and proud.
Armed with clubs and swords in hand,
They stormed the Church, as if planned.
The Church of the Lord, under attack,
Some were slain, others taken aback.
Beaten, trampled, or banished far,
A tumult under the Eastern star.
The βουκόλων presence, a mark so stark,
Leads to one place: the Church of St. Mark.
In the βουκόλια, where history's scars
Tell of battles, beneath the stars.
George's relation to Markan line,
In actions dark, does it define.
For in this act, history's page
Is stained with violence, not sage.
A moment in time, when faith was tested,
By power's hand, heavily vested.
Yet, through the turmoil, the church stood tall,
A beacon of hope, for one and all.
In Alexandria's heart, a story told,
Of orthodoxy, topography, bold.
So let us remember, in history's weave,
The lessons of faith, we receive.
In the map of belief, where we find our mark,
Is also the story, of St. Mark.
In the weave of ancient texts, a thread of gold,
Eusebius to Alexander, a story told.
Through Clement's hands, a letter sent,
To Alexandria, with intent.
Clement, the blessed, in providence's name,
Strengthened the church, in the Master's aim.
"The Church of the Lord," he built and raised,
In unity and faith, he is praised.
In the Stromata's closing pages, we find,
Clement's words, of the universal kind.
"The original church," in unity's bind,
By one God's will, the faithful combined.
Gathered in the Lord, the ordained stand,
In Alexandria's church, a unity grand.
συνάγουσαν, a term of old,
From synagogue roots, a meaning bold.
Irenaeus, too, in his report,
Heretics' churches, a similar sort.
And Mark's church, in hypothesis bold,
Stood where the Great Synagogue, in tales told.
Philo's words, a link provide,
To a past where faith and history collide.
In Alexandria's sand, a sacred space,
The church and synagogue, face to face.
So through the mists of time, we see,
A tapestry of faith, in unity.
The Church of Alexandria, a beacon bright,
In the unity of faith, a guiding light.
In Clement's steps, and Mark's domain,
A story of gathering, remains.
In the heart of Alexandria, a tale so grand,
Of a church built on faith, in a sacred land.
In the tumult of Alexandria's ancient days,
Athanasius’s words, through history's haze,
Recount the Arian stride,
Churches retaken, in a wave, wide.
George, with military pomp, did enter,
His authority, none could hinder.
Epictetus, a novice, by his side,
In youthful boldness, he did abide.
A clear allusion, Newman found,
In Mark 10:21, a parallel profound.
George as Jesus, in a role reversed,
Loving the bold, for wickedness immersed.
Athanasius, through a lens obscure,
Relayed their tale, intentions impure.
Why reference Mark, in such a light,
A sacred gospel, in disparaging plight?
Could it be, as Athanasius penned,
From St. Mark's traditions, he did fend?
Estranged from Egypt's original creed,
As Arianism took its seed.
A story of love, twisted and turned,
In the fires of controversy, it burned.
George and Epictetus, a duo dark,
Far from the spirit of St. Mark.
Athanasius, from afar, did view,
The original traditions, as they flew.
In the wake of Arianism's rise,
The Church of St. Mark, in his eyes,
Was lost to those who walked astray,
From the path that Mark did lay.
In the tale of George and his beloved youth,
A shadow over the gospel's truth.
Yet, through the annals of time, we seek,
To understand the faith they speak.
In Alexandria's storied sands,
The legacy of Mark still stands.
In the folds of history, a tale unfolds,
Of George and Epictetus, in power's holds.
Epictetus, not merely a shadow cast,
But in Constantius’s court, his lot was cast.
Installed as bishop, with a watchful eye,
Over Roman Pope Liberius, under the sky.
Felix in place, more willing to bend,
A story of power, manipulation to tend.
Their relationship, complex, deep,
Not one of subordination, in secrets they keep.
Among eunuchs, Epictetus found his role,
In the government’s ranks, he took his toll.
Contrasting sharply with Nicaea’s stance,
Where eunuchs in clergy, had no chance.
The first canon, a clear decree,
Self-made eunuchs, in clergy cannot be.
Yet, Alexandria’s tradition, centuries old,
With castrati, a story bold.
Origen, of these, the most renowned,
His motivations, in silence, drowned.
Clement, too, with a silence profound,
On Mark and his gospel, mysteries abound.
Perhaps these silences, a link to find,
In the secret gospel, a clue, a sign.
For in the shadows of ancient faith,
Silences speak, in whispers, saith.
Of power, of tradition, of roles defined,
In the pages of history, intertwined.
So ponder the tale of George and his peer,
In the backdrop of a court, so near.
And remember the silence, the stories untold,
In Alexandria’s tradition, bold.
Mark the Castrated?
In the annals of faith, a name is cast,
Mark, the evangelist, bound to the past.
ὁ κολοβοδάκτυλος, a term so rare,
In the Philosophumena, it takes its share.
Linked to Marcion, a sect's belief,
The epithet brings a curious grief.
For what does it mean, this word so old,
In the tales of Mark, what’s told?
κολοβός, a word of multiple trails,
"Mutilated," "castrated," it unveils.
And δάκτυλος, in Aristophanes' play,
A euphemism, in a certain way.
Could it be, this term so stark,
Hints at Mark, a eunuch in the dark?
A theory posited, with historical might,
In ancient texts, a curious light.
Yet, beyond the speculation and lore,
The evangelist's message, something more.
For Mark’s gospel, a truth does tell,
Beyond his body, his spirit swells.
Let not the epithet dim his light,
Nor the mystery cloud our sight.
For in his words, a faith so bright,
Guiding the lost, to find their right.
In the echoes of history, a figure stands,
Mark, with his gospel, in his hands.
ὁ κολοβοδάκτυλος, though it may confound,
It's his message of love, that's truly profound.
Before Clement's time, shadows stretch long,
In Alexandria, where faith grew strong.
The Stromatist cites, with careful hand,
Julius Cassian's work, in a land of sand.
On Castration, a topic so grave,
In ascetic ideals, the faithful brave.
The Gospel according to Egyptians, it seems,
Spoke of sterilization, in radical themes.
Justin Martyr tells a tale,
Of a youth, whose faith did not fail.
In Alexandria's streets, he sought to find,
A way to leave his desires behind.
But the law stood firm, a barrier high,
Under its watchful eye, he could but sigh.
This tale of castration, so deeply ingrained,
In Alexandrian Christianity, it remained.
A door to understanding, wide and clear,
Of Markan Christianity, far and near.
Irenaeus’s caricature, a picture so stark,
Of a community centered around Mark.
Encouraged to correct, to refine the view,
The Philosophumena, with insights new.
A bishop-centered faith, it revealed,
In response to objections, its vitriol sealed.
The Markan tradition, in defense, stood tall,
Against Irenaeus’s account, they did call.
For a faith, not in vitriol cast,
But in love and community, vast.
So from Alexandria’s ancient sands,
To the shores of distant lands.
The tale of castration, ascetic ideals,
In faith's journey, it reveals.
A history complex, of belief and pain,
Of seeking purity, a heavenly gain.
Yet through the centuries, one thing remains true,
The spirit of inquiry, ever anew.
Irenaeus on the so-called "Marcosians"
In the labyrinth of ancient texts, a thread is spun,
Tertullian's pen, under history's sun.
Adversus Valentinianos, a rework, entwined,
Valentinians explored, but Marcosians declined.
Marcus, a name in a list compiled,
Among "famous Valentinians," somehow mild.
Yet, from narratives bold and clear,
Chapters thirteen to twenty-one, disappear.
A new conclusion, carefully wrought,
From Adversus Haereses, a lesson taught.
But Marcus, once more, finds his name,
In accusations, vitriol, and blame.
Tertullian, unlike the Philosophumena's grace,
Turns the vitriol up, setting the pace.
Sexualized rites, mystery’s shroud,
Nudity, eunuchs, proclaimed aloud.
Marcus’s beliefs, practices strange,
In Tertullian’s words, a dramatic change.
A narrative sculpted, with a different view,
Of Marcus and his following, under scrutiny anew.
In the dance of doctrine, a fiery debate,
Tertullian’s account, fuels the state.
Ancient texts, with layers deep,
In the sands of time, secrets to keep.
So ponder we now, these tales of old,
Of beliefs, practices, stories told.
In the reworking of texts, a pattern we see,
Of doctrine, division, and mystery.
In the study of faith, a path we tread,
Through ancient narratives, cautiously led.
For in the words of Tertullian, a lesson clear,
In the history of doctrine, there’s much to revere.
In the ancient weave of faith and lore,
Irenaeus penned truths to explore.
Adversus Haereses, his critique bold,
Valentinians’ grace, in mysteries told.
An unspeakable union, from above,
A love for women, distinct from love.
Not as mortals engage, but a divine embrace,
A grace bestowed, beyond the commonplace.
Tertullian, with a critical eye,
Transformed this grace, with a heavy sigh.
Spiritual men, in gatherings dim,
Eunuchs and companions, at the brim.
The sacrament of uniting, a controversial rite,
In ecclesiastical shadows, away from the light.
Comiti, partners in faith’s dance,
In Tertullian’s words, a different stance.
What of eunuchs, among them seen?
A question posed, in tones keen.
Comes, a term of partnership and care,
In apostolic tradition, a role rare.
Attendants of the bishop, in service true,
The original Greek, ἀκόλουθος, in view.
From Christ’s tradition, the truth conveyed,
Through companions, the foundation laid.
Yet, in Tertullian’s reworking, a twist is found,
Inuendo and critique, tightly wound.
Valentinians, in a light anew,
Spiritual unions, under review.
In the dialogue of faith, ancient and deep,
Questions of doctrine, awake from sleep.
Tertullian and Irenaeus, voices from the past,
In their writings, a debate vast.
So we ponder, in the light of today,
The meanings and mysteries, in their play.
For in the ancient texts, a conversation,
Of faith, love, and divine relation.
In the ancient dance of word and creed,
Tertullian’s voice, a distinctive lead.
Spiritual ones, in masculine frame,
Destined for heaven, their rightful claim.
“Males” they are called, in coupling bold,
With psychic “females,” a mystery told.
Eunuchs, perhaps, by implication,
In ecclesiastical speculation.
Mark, the overseer, masculinity defined,
A bearded pater, in flesh and mind.
A severus maritus, soul’s great-grandfather,
To the Pleroma’s palace, he’d rather gather.
With the angel, a union, to beget,
An ὀνήσιμος Aeon, without regret.
Blushingly spoken, a celestial birth,
In the mystical nuptial of heaven and earth.
ὀνήσιμος, a term, Greek ecclesiastical,
πάπα, a word, still practical.
“Father” or “grandfather,” linguists debate,
In the fabric of faith, a thread innate.
Tertullian, on his own authority,
Crafts a narrative of divine priority.
The masculinity of spiritual males,
In heaven’s court, where truth prevails.
Yet, in this tale of ancient times,
A reminder of the church’s chimes.
Language, belief, and gender’s role,
In the salvation of the soul.
So, let us ponder, in the light of now,
The meanings behind the sacred vow.
For in Tertullian’s words, a reflection,
Of faith’s journey, in introspection.
In ancient texts, Tertullian's voice resounds,
Echoing through time, where mystery abounds.
A precursor to gossip, modern and old,
Of bishops and rituals, stories bold.
In the shadows of the Markan tradition's hall,
Clandestine rites, a secretive call.
Castrated attendants, in rituals entwined,
A narrative against the Papal, designed.
Connected deeply, to Clement's Letter,
The background of controversies, better or better.
Becoming spiritual, a coupling required,
Nakedness, a psychic state, inspired.
To enter the Pleroma, first unclothed,
Putting aside souls, in mysteries betrothed.
The sexualization of these sacred rites,
Like the Sabines' rape, in spiritual flights.
For the pleasure of the spiritual male,
A ritualized reward, a spirit-like tale.
Within religious mysteries, these acts are cast,
Reserved for the Marcosians, in narratives vast.
In lieu of torch and veil, a fire imagined,
A ceremonial blaze, in jest, fashioned.
Devastating the universe, then fading to naught,
The end of their myth, provocatively thought.
So concludes the tale of sexualized creed,
In the account of Mark, a mystery to read.
The role of eunuchs, in Alexandria's lore,
A secret tradition, opening the door.
To understand the past, with all its layers,
Requires navigating through myriad prayers.
Yet, in the quest for truth, in jest or in solemn,
Lies the essence of belief, ancient and column.
The “Awakening” of Theodore
Beyond the whispers of ancient times,
In search of truth, our study climbs.
Not swayed by gossip, nor innuendo’s call,
But grounded firmly, in history’s hall.
Clement and Origen, a connection profound,
In their writings, a mystery found.
Theodore, a name that binds them tight,
A figure shrouded, in historical light.
Correspondences hint at a deeper lore,
An Alexandrian mystery, at its core.
Heresiologists, with their tales exaggerated,
Leave the truth obscured, and debated.
The context of history, names evolve,
In the dance of time, mysteries dissolve.
Theodores not two, but perhaps one and the same,
In the tapestry of faith, a curious game.
Eusebius tells of Gregory, “Thaumaturgus” known,
As “Theodore” before baptism, his identity shown.
Θεόδωρος, a name from classical grace,
In Christian circles, finds its place.
The late second century, a resurgence it sees,
In the names of saints, in the whispers of trees.
This study, not of gossip’s seed,
But a pursuit of truth, in thought and deed.
So, let us delve, with open mind,
In ancient correspondences, what truths we find.
Clement, Origen, and Theodore,
In their stories, history’s door.
In Alexandria’s sands, a mystery religion,
Influenced by the divine, a spiritual vision.
Through the fog of time, our quest persists,
For historical truth, in the scholars’ mists.
In the whispers of the Alexandrian night,
Where mysteries unfurl, away from sight,
Clement weaves a tapestry so bright,
Connecting ἐγείρω, "to awake," to spiritual flight.
Pauline words with ancient rites entwine,
The soul’s departure, a sign divine.
At night, it leaves the flesh behind,
In search of truths, it yearns to find.
Gregory, now Γρηγόριος, anew,
After a rite, his spirit flew.
Awakening to the Holy Spirit’s call,
A soul reborn, amidst it all.
Linked to tales of a youth so rich,
Resurrected by Jesus, without a hitch.
After seven days, a new life found,
In secret gospels, this story is bound.
Heraclitus, through Clement’s eyes,
Aligns with rites under starry skies.
The initiate, from death to wake,
A journey of the soul, it undertakes.
Romans thirteen, a verse of might,
"Illuminates the mystery rite.
“Time to awake from sleep,” the bishop cries,
As the initiate, the Lord, espies.
An all-night procession, a spiritual quest,
“The night is far spent,” they attest.
"The day is at hand," a new dawn breaks,
A new Christian, in spirit, awakes.
This rite of passage, so profound,
In Alexandrian mysteries, is found.
A wholly spiritual nature, born anew,
In the ancient rites, a transformative view.
So, let us ponder, in the quiet of the night,
The mysteries that flee the light.
For in the ancient rites of old,
A story of awakening, boldly told.
In the realm of ancient rites and names,
Where wisdom’s light quietly flames,
Theodore, or perhaps Γρηγόριος, called to wake,
From Alexandrian mysteries, his path to take.
“Watchful,” the name does mean,
In baptism’s waters, a spiritual sheen.
Clement speaks, with eloquence rare,
Of awakening souls, in the Instructor’s care.
As sleep’s hold is firmly shaken,
The spirit within, awoken, unbroken.
Not light from without, but an obstacle removed,
The eye of the spirit, in clarity proved.
Wiped off the sins, the divine to see,
The Holy Spirit flows, liberatingly free.
In baptism’s embrace, a vision so bright,
The spirit’s eye full of divine light.
But deeper still, these rites convey,
A spiritual marriage, in display.
Not alone, but together they stand,
In a collective awakening, hand in hand.
The Alexandrian mysteries, a union profound,
Where spiritual bonds are eternally found.
Two souls, in the sacred dance entwined,
In the waters of baptism, their destinies aligned.
So let us remember, in history’s deep flow,
The mysteries that ancient wisdoms show.
In every baptism, an awakening, a start,
A spiritual marriage, of heart to heart.
In the watchful eyes of those reborn,
A new day dawns, bright and unsworn.
For in the rites of old, a truth we find,
Spiritual awakening, of the collective mind.
In the quiet of the night, Clement speaks,
Of rituals deep, where the divine seeks.
"Let your loins be girt," he declares,
"And your lamps burning," for the Lord cares.
"Like men that watch," ever vigilant,
For the Lord's return, their spirits lit.
Blessed, those found awake upon His knock,
For them, the gates of heaven unlock.
No use for sleepers in this sacred quest,
Like the dead, they miss the divine bequest.
Rise by night, bless God on high,
For blessed are they who in His light lie.
Make yourselves like angels, watchers true,
Eyes always open to the divine hue.
A sleeping man, no more than dead,
Life's true essence, from him has fled.
Gregory, a name from watchers derived,
Divine beings, in vigilance thrived.
Eyes open to God's eternal light,
Vigilant through the darkest night.
Clement draws parallels, a vigil to keep,
Not to close our eyes, not to sleep.
Darkness enters when eyes are shut,
A death-like sleep, a door to cut.
"Sons of the true light," Christians named,
Illuminated, their inner selves claimed.
The concealed self, an internal illumination,
Seeking the truth, a divine revelation.
The psychic eye, to inward turn,
In dreams, the streams of truth discern.
Clement urges, unveil the dream,
In the light of God, truly gleam.
So let us be watchful, our lamps burning bright,
Vigilant servants in God's sight.
For in the wakefulness of our soul's eye,
Lies the path to the divine, high.
From ancient texts, a whisper flows,
Of Clement's thoughts, and what he knows.
"ἐγρηγόρους," the angels called,
By Enoch's book, our minds enthralled.
Theodore, named Γρηγόριος, a role to bear,
As overseer, a charge so rare.
In Neo-Caesarea, his duty clear,
To guide his flock, with godly fear.
Ordination follows baptism’s rite,
A bishop enthroned, in heavenly light.
A symbol profound, of Christ risen,
In the bishop's role, divinely given.
Amalarius, in the eighth century, wrote,
Of the bishop's enthronement, a noteworthy note.
"Christ ascended," to heaven’s expanse,
The bishop, in memory, mirrors that dance.
On the right hand of the Father, to sit,
The bishop's role, a symbol fit.
After labor’s toil, his ministry’s end,
To his throne he ascends, a message to send.
The Ascension of Christ, in our minds to dwell,
Through the bishop's enthronement, the story we tell.
A vicar of Christ, in ceremony and deed,
In his ascension, Christ’s throne we heed.
So let us remember, in rites and prayers,
The symbols profound, in sacred layers.
For in the bishop's throne, a heavenly sight,
The risen Christ, in eternal light.
Theodore: “Disciple of the Gospel” at Alexandria in Vita Gregorii
In the tapestry of time, a thread unspun,
Gregory of Neocaesarea, once Theodore, begun.
A name change post baptism, a life anew,
In Clement’s letter, clues ensue.
Connected to Origen, in the decade of two thirty,
Eusebius’s history, a path not so murky.
From Alexandria’s learned halls, Origen fled,
To Caesarea, where his wisdom spread.
Theodore and Athenodorus, youths in their prime,
Visited Origen, transcending time.
Five years under his tutelage, they grew,
In the arts of faith, their spirits flew.
Yet, Gregory speaks, in oration grand,
Of eight years in Christianity's land.
From worldly studies, they did depart,
To embrace Christ, with all their heart.
A discrepancy arises, numbers at play,
Five or eight years, what do they say?
Mystical significance, the number eight holds,
In the journey of faith, a story unfolds.
Eusebius’s account, a period assumed,
From studies to faith, their lives resumed.
Perhaps a gap, before initiation’s start,
A preparation phase, for a pure heart.
Attempts to resolve, the numbers debate,
Five, six, seven, or eight?
Yet, in the mystery, a truth we find,
In the pursuit of faith, time is intertwined.
So, let us ponder, in the light of lore,
Gregory, Theodore, and much more.
For in their journey, a lesson clear,
The path to faith, ever dear.
In the annals of the past, a story cast,
Theodore's journey, vast and vast.
From Alexandria's famed, ancient seat,
To Origen's wisdom, a disciple to meet.
Vita Gregorii, by Nyssa penned,
A narrative gap, it aimed to mend.
The Great One, in Egyptian lore,
Like Moses, wisdom did he explore.
Through Greek teachings, he roamed wide,
Their weakness and incoherence, he couldn’t abide.
A disciple of the gospel, in Alexandria's light,
Before baptism’s grace, he fought the good fight.
Many scholars, through time, have traced,
Theodore’s path, intricately laced.
From Alexandria’s sands to Caesarea's shore,
To learn from Origen, lore of yore.
Yet, Theodore’s tale, a mystery remains,
Of the years before, in silent refrains.
From Egypt’s land, to Caesarea’s embrace,
A change of residence, a change of pace.
The reasons obscured, the narrative shy,
On these details, Theodore did not rely.
The beginning of his Christian path, unclear,
Left to speculation, year by year.
The Vita whispers of a discipleship concealed,
In the gospel’s light, not fully revealed.
Theodore’s experiences, before the mystical birth,
A journey of faith, of immense worth.
So, we ponder on these silent years,
The path to faith, through hopes and fears.
For in the mystery of Theodore’s way,
Lies the beauty of seeking, day by day.
In Alexandria's ancient, bustling streets,
Where knowledge and tumultuous history meets,
Origen and youths, their paths entwined,
But not as disciples, as some had opined.
Unrest stirred, a city's deep sigh,
Compelling Origen, under threat, to fly.
The youths, too, their studies ceased,
In search of safety, from the least to the priest.
The Vita whispers, in tones subdued,
Of Theodore's baptism, in quietude.
If not by Origen, then who could it be?
Clement's guiding hand, a key.
A letter to Theodore, from Clement sent,
On gospel mysteries, its content bent.
A disciple appointed, in gospel's grace,
The priesthood’s path, he was to embrace.
In Alexandria's church, a gospel veiled,
To the initiated, its mysteries unveiled.
Theodore, in a world post-secret revealed,
Moses, his teacher, in texts concealed.
“Hidden and unknown,” the Vita declares,
Moses, like the gospel, ensnares.
To the multitude, a mystery profound,
In Clement's guidance, Theodore found.
Exploring gospel truths, under Clement’s care,
Theodore’s journey, a scholar’s share.
In the dance of texts, history’s weave,
The mysteries of faith, we conceive.
Thus, through shadows of the past we peer,
To uncover a tale, both far and near.
Clement and Theodore, in Alexandria’s light,
A journey of faith, in historical sight.
Origen's Letter to Theodore
In ancient scrolls, a tale unfolds,
Of Origen's words, in letters bold.
A plea from Theodore, desperate, clear,
To complete his studies, held so dear.
Clement and Gregory, in time entwined,
In Logothete’s words, their stories we find.
A doctoral thesis, Celia's quest,
On Gregory's life, puts Jerome to the test.
In Caesarea's library, secrets lie,
Theodore's authorship, cannot deny.
Pamphilus’s catalog, a key so grand,
Holding the past, in its silent hand.
“Apologia pro Origene,” a defense made,
And the original letter, its words never fade.
Celia’s research, a path to tread,
To Morton Smith's findings, we are led.
Intriguing connections, a web so vast,
Between ancient letters, a shadow cast.
The circumstances of Origen’s letter,
In historical context, understood better.
The contemporaneity of minds so bright,
Clement, Gregory, in shared light.
And in Smith’s discovery, a link we see,
To Celia's work, a key to history’s spree.
So, let us delve, with keen eye,
Into the past, where answers lie.
For in the confluence of research and lore,
Lies a story, rich and raw.
Origen’s letter, a desperate plea,
Theodore's studies, a quest to be free.
Clement and Gregory, side by side,
In the annals of history, their stories abide.
In this tapestry of time and thought,
The connections between scholars, sought.
A journey through texts, ancient and revered,
Where the mysteries of the past, slowly cleared.
In the halls of history, Celia delves deep,
Where the shadows of the past silently creep.
Jerome's words, a beacon light,
In Caesarea's library, a scholarly sight.
Firmilianus, Gregorius, letters array,
To Origen, their thoughts convey.
Yet, more intriguing still, the tale,
Of Origen’s Letter to Theodore, a veiled trail.
Derived from the Philocalia, cut off,
The last lines missing, no farewells to doff.
A pattern emerges, a secrecy bound,
In ecclesiastical whispers, a delicate sound.
Theodore’s silence, a mystery holds,
His meeting with Origen, the story unfolds.
Clement to Theodore, a correspondence torn,
Its ending removed, leaving questions born.
Similarly, Origen to Theodore, ends abrupt,
In monastic shadows, the letters tucked.
Pages ripped from a printed text,
Where Clement’s letter, in history, next.
A pattern of secrecy, ecclesiastical, deep,
Details related to a “delicate situation” keep.
What mysteries do these omissions hide?
In the folds of history, secrets reside.
This consistent pattern, a curious case,
Of ecclesiastical secrecy, in time’s embrace.
In the search for truth, we ponder and query,
The details obscured, the past weary.
Yet, in this quest, a hope to find,
The light of knowledge, to unbind.
For in the whispers of the past, a story told,
Of secrecy, mystery, and faith bold.
In scholarly halls, a debate took root,
Nautin’s claim, in pursuit.
"Panegyricus Oratio," a name engraved,
Theodore as author, he bravely waived.
Celia, through the Vita's maze,
Dismissed the theories, in a scholarly gaze.
Yet, conceding to the thought so grand,
That Theodore’s pen, did this work command.
Jerome, in discourse, did unfold,
Theodore to Gregory, a story told.
"Qui postea Gregorius," a transformation seen,
In the bishopric of Neocaesarea, he'd lean.
The “Panegyricus Oratio,” a farewell ode,
To Origen, a debt of gratitude owed.
Though support may be thin, the narrative cast,
The authorship to Theodore, firmly grasped.
Pamphilus’s library, a treasure chest,
The manuscript’s authorship, put to test.
Attributed to Theodore, not Gregory’s light,
In this scholarly journey, a fascinating sight.
So in the pages of history, a mystery penned,
Theodore’s role, from start to end.
In the shadow of Origen, a voice found,
In "Panegyricus Oratio," its authorship crowned.
Though questions linger, and debates flare,
Theodore's contribution, distinctly rare.
In the pursuit of knowledge, a path we tread,
Where ancient manuscripts, their secrets shed.
Clement's Letter to Theodore
In the quiet of Palestine's ancient halls,
Where the echo of history softly calls,
A letter from Clement, to Theodore addressed,
In the monastic quiet, its presence confessed.
Mar Saba's walls, until the millennium's turn,
Held Clement's letters, for the devout to learn.
Gregory of Neocaesarea, a life explored,
Reveals Pamphilus's interest, not ignored.
Theodore, in Apologia, prominently placed,
By Pamphilus, his contributions embraced.
In the library of Caesarea, a catalog made,
Theodore’s writings, in memory stayed.
“Ἐκ τῶν ἐπιστολῶν,” the superscription reads,
A testament to Clement's theological deeds.
Theodore, the recipient of this divine word,
In the 17th-century manuscript, it stirred.
Could Pamphilus, with foresight clear,
Preserve these words, so dear?
A meticulous guardian of the sacred flame,
Ensuring Theodore’s legacy, and Clement’s name.
The omission of correspondence, a curious act,
Preserving secrets, an unspoken pact.
Confidential, sacred, too profound to share,
In the neo-Alexandrian tradition, a careful affair.
The events of 230, a moment in time,
Theodore’s words, a mysterious chime.
“Οὐκ ἔγωγε καὶ ταῦτα,” he softly declared,
A refusal to explain, nothing compared.
In this web of history, intricately spun,
The letter to Theodore, under the sun.
A bridge to the past, in silence it speaks,
Of the sacred journey, the truth it seeks.
In the realm of scholarly pursuit, a call,
For rigor, not innuendo, to guide us all.
Conspiracies, though alluring in their craft,
Fail to capture the historical draft.
Clement’s Letter, a Markan vestige,
In pre-Nicene Alexandria, a cultural bridge.
A truth, obscured, beneath the sands,
By religious fervor, in later hands.
The task at hand, not merely challenging,
But complex, insoluble, a scholarly reckoning.
What secret did Theodore, Origen, and Clement hide?
A love, not ordinary, but with a sacred stride.
Same-sex love, in a society constrained,
Misogyny rampant, sacred values strained.
A departure from norms, so deeply held,
In Origen’s opponent, Adversus Celsum, spelled.
Yet, in this love, a truth profound,
A reflection of the divine, in which they found.
Not bound by the conventions of their day,
But a higher calling, to which they gave sway.
So, let us approach with open mind and heart,
The mysteries of the past, a scholarly art.
For in the letters and texts, long concealed,
A deeper understanding can be revealed.
In the pursuit of truth, let us be kind,
To the complexities of the human mind.
For in the annals of history, we may find,
Love, in its many forms, intertwined.
In the twilight of the second age,
Celsus spoke, from his sage's stage.
"Embrace the path of wedded bliss,"
He urged the Christians, not to miss.
"Serve not the gods?" Then stand apart,
From marriage, offspring, life's own art.
But if you choose to join as one,
Fulfill your duties, under sun.
Gratitude to divine forces, show,
In life's journey, as you go.
The joys and sorrows, embrace them all,
In married life, heed the call.
Yet, in these words, a deeper plea,
To forsake the Christian creed, seemingly.
For to marry, to bear, to partake in the race,
Was seen as leaving, Christian grace.
Post military strife, in Egypt's land,
Christians, in suspicion, did stand.
Supporting foes, against Imperial might,
In the shadows of history, out of sight.
Yet, our quest lies not in martial tales,
But in love’s defense, as it prevails.
Clement, Theodore, Origen, they knew,
A love turning back on the world, true.
In their hearts, a different call,
To love, divine, surpassing all.
Not bound by Celsus’s worldly view,
But to a higher love, steadfast and true.
So let us ponder, in this ancient fight,
The essence of love, in eternal light.
For in the teachings of those long past,
A love that turns back on the world, to last.
In the annals of ancient time, a tale unfolds,
Eusebius, a key in hand, he holds.
Gregory of Neocaesarea, a name renowned,
And Athenodorus, in history found.
Twin bishops of Pontus, a mystery concealed,
Their story in the Vita, not fully revealed.
Yet, within the Panegyricus Oratio's light,
An insight, hiding in plain sight.
Gregory spoke of a companion dear,
Theodore's love, in narrative clear.
Athenodorus, by Firmilian known,
Their shared journey, beautifully shown.
From worldly wisdom, they turned away,
To embrace Christianity's call, come what may.
Their mutual desire, a bond so true,
Together in faith, their spirits flew.
Becoming an ornament, a bishop in grace,
In the church of Caesarea, they found their place.
The parallel lines of their lives entwined,
Athenodorus and Firmilian, in history signed.
Just as Theodore became Gregory, a transformation deep,
Their stories, a sacred secret to keep.
Basil and Gregory, in the next age,
Similar paths on history’s stage.
So let us ponder, with Eusebius’s clue,
The mystery of twin bishops, in view.
For in the essence of their tale,
A love and devotion, that did not fail.
In the fabric of the church, a thread so fine,
The bond of companionship, divine.
So, through the mists of time, we see,
The enduring power of unity.
In whispers of the past, a story told,
Where truths and mysteries unfold.
The “Panegyricus Oratio,” in plural voice,
Hints at a union, a deliberate choice.
Eusebius, a witness to the scene,
Of two men enthroned, together, serene.
Not in the realm of love's common guise,
But a bond of souls, under ancient skies.
Theodore and Athenodorus, names intertwined,
In a love profound, not just confined
To the physical realm, but deeper still,
A spiritual kinship, a shared will.
Their love, not hidden in shadows dark,
But shining bright, a divine spark.
Not about sex, but something more,
A love transcending, at its core.
Through the lens of Basil and Gregory,
Heirs of spirit, in unity free.
A love that's superior, beyond the familial,
In Alexandrian tradition, a concept ethereal.
This love, once concealed from public eye,
In the context of their time, might imply
A depth of connection, pure and true,
In Christian community, a perspective anew.
So let us ponder, with hearts wide open,
The nature of love, and its token.
For in the story of these ancient lives,
A testament to love, that still survives.
In exploring their tale, we come to see,
The power of love, in its highest degree.
A model for all, in times old and new,
Of spiritual love, enduring and true.
In the tapestry of time, a thread so fine,
Weaves the tale of the twin divine.
Macrina the Elder, a matriarch revered,
In Neo-Caesarea, a legacy premiered.
Her grandchildren, in wisdom's light,
Continued her path, in scholarly might.
Basil to Cappadocia, for wisdom's quest,
Where Gregory of Nazianzus, became his guest.
To Alexandria, Gregory's path was drawn,
While Basil in Constantinople, greeted the dawn.
In Athens, their spirits once again met,
A friendship flourished, on a solid set.
Gregory Nazianzus, with nostalgic grace,
Recalled their union, time could not erase.
“As one soul in two bodies,” a bond so rare,
In the glow of youth, a perfect pair.
Theodore's oration, to Origen a praise,
David and Jonathan, their souls ablaze.
A oneness of spirit, a fusion of heart,
In their journey together, a divine art.
The Pontic bishops, in language so clear,
Spoke of a love, profound and dear.
A spark within, their souls to light,
A baptismal journey, into the night.
So let us remember, in tales of old,
The story of love, so boldly told.
From Macrina's teachings, to Basil and Gregory's bond,
A spiritual love, of which they were fond.
In this ancient tale, a lesson profound,
In the bonds of love, we are found.
For in the fellowship of souls so bright,
Lies the essence of love, in eternal light.
Beneath the veil of divine light,
Two bishops' souls, in union bright.
A sacred covenant, divinely cast,
Their spiritual bond, forever to last.
Unable to sever, even with time's test,
Their connection, more than blessed.
In Holy Scripture, their kinship told,
A symbol sacred, in mysteries old.
Gregory's oration, a love professed,
For Basil, his heart openly confessed.
Philosophy, their shared pursuit,
A confession of souls, in absolute.
From that moment, a bond so pure,
Roommates, messmates, soulmates sure.
In contemplation of the Divine One,
Their shared desire, brightly shone.
Each to the other, a constant flame,
Intensifying love, in the highest name.
Together in spirit, in life's grand scope,
Bound by love, filled with hope.
So let us honor, in memory dear,
This union of souls, both far and near.
For in their story, a lesson divine,
Of love and fellowship, eternally entwine.
In the heart of mystery, a sacred tie,
Transcending the bounds of the earthly sky.
Gregory and Basil, in love’s embrace,
A testament to grace, in time and space.
Gregory spoke of love, transient and frail,
Like spring's flowers, that bloom and pale.
Physical desire, a flame so bright,
Fades when its fuel escapes into night.
But love divine, chaste and true,
Holds a firmness, ever anew.
Immutable, this love does bind,
In divinity and chastity, it's defined.
This law of love, so deeply shared,
By Gregory and Basil, souls bared.
In their early life, a bond so pure,
Their vision of beauty, forever sure.
Then there's Theodore, and his teacher revered,
Origen's impact, profoundly endeared.
"Wounded by the arrow" of discourse so keen,
A "dart of friendship," setting the scene.
A blaze ignited, love profound,
For the holy Word, in their hearts found.
Origen, a friend, a spokesman so bright,
Kindling their souls, with divine light.
This encounter transformative, a shift so grand,
From worldly concerns, to a higher stand.
Philosophy and its guide, their singular love,
Directed by the divine, from above.
So let us ponder, this love so deep,
In the hearts of these men, forever to keep.
For in the flames of divine love, we find,
A bond unbreakable, of the highest kind.
In the tale's climax, a metaphor so bright,
Gregory and Basil, salamanders in the night.
Dancing in flames, a vivid scene,
A legacy from Origen, evergreen.
Theodore's words, to Theopompus sent,
A salamander’s tale, with deep intent.
Despising the flame, through fire unscathed,
A symbol of resilience, beautifully phrased.
Asbestos, too, in fire whole,
Suffering not, retaining its soul.
A lesson of endurance, from fire unfurled,
A metaphor for navigating the world.
But this wisdom traces back even more,
To Clement of Alexandria, ancient lore.
In the Stromata, a truth revealed,
The power of self-control, a protective shield.
Gnostic wisdom, temperate and pure,
Passionless, in pleasure and pain secure.
Like adamant in fire, unharmed, unshaken,
A master of oneself, by knowledge waken.
So let us ponder this imagery deep,
Of salamanders in the fire’s leap.
A symbol of resilience, from ages past,
A lesson in self-control, to forever last.
For in the dance of flames, a truth we find,
The strength of spirit, of an enlightened mind.
Gregory and Basil, in their fiery dance,
Embody a legacy of divine chance.
Concluding Words
In the dance of fire, where secrets lie,
Two creatures leap, under the ancient sky.
A symbol for love, so fiercely forbidden,
In Alexandrian Christianity, deeply hidden.
Beyond the realm of the seen, the felt,
In contemplation’s domain, where hearts melt.
Born from desire's fleeting flame,
Regenerating, never the same.
From the base to the sublime, they rise,
A transformation before our very eyes.
Elusive in essence, in mystery wrapped,
In the fire's embrace, they're eternally trapped.
Like love itself, beyond price, beyond measure,
Not to be quantified, a sacred treasure.
In the souls of lovers, noble and true,
Residing forever, in a hue of the deepest blue.
Those who love truth, in its purest form,
Find in these creatures, a symbol warm.
A dance within fire, a love so divine,
In the heart of Alexandria, forever to shine.
So let us ponder this profound sight,
Of mythical beings, in eternal flight.
For in their dance, a truth is told,
Of love’s power, bold and bold.
Zelle me a $1000 dollars for the original 40 page paper to stephan.h.huller@gmail.com
Otherwise,
[more to follow]