Kneel Until Your Knees Bleed: a Fable Diodorus records a paradigm shift of some importance, no importance really if you were a person of little consequence, a poet perhaps, but if a king your life would be longer and more prosperous. Ergamanes, King of Nubia, disdained the divine recall of the gods, refusing as was custom to take his own life when issued a nullification decree by priests of the highest standing, those few allowed to enter the inner sanctum of the temple, their holy of holies, practicing the daily rite of water worship and sacrifice to the sun, given the word of god that the king, his time, his reign, finished on this earth, must dispatch himself and give way to the next, a sycophantic heir favored thus by god. Ergamanes, risen from his marriage bed, a brace of wives content to a point of satiation, feels no compunction to obey the priestly emissaries at his door. He declaims his god's command, assembles an army by mid-day and rides to the forbidden place, the golden temple, and slaughters all the priests, both high and low; their marrow yields to sand. You would likely do the same: the golden calf or lamb pulled down and turned to trinkets, statues pummeled to powder and shard, columns pulled apart and down, and the whole place burned. Now a king shall live forever and the poet's word, the historian's hand, burn with obsequy long and long and long into the night.
Kneel Until Your Knees Bleed: a Fable.
Ritterbusch, Dale
Kneel Until Your Knees Bleed: a Fable Diodorus records a paradigm shift of some importance, no importance really if you were a person of little consequence, a poet perhaps, but if a king your life would be longer and more prosperous. Ergamanes, King of Nubia, disdained the divine recall of the gods, refusing as was custom to take his own life when issued a nullification decree by priests of the highest standing, those few allowed to enter the inner sanctum of the temple, their holy of holies, practicing the daily rite of water worship and sacrifice to the sun, given the word of god that the king, his time, his reign, finished on this earth, must dispatch himself and give way to the next, a sycophantic heir favored thus by god. Ergamanes, risen from his marriage bed, a brace of wives content to a point of satiation, feels no compunction to obey the priestly emissaries at his door. He declaims his god's command, assembles an army by mid-day and rides to the forbidden place, the golden temple, and slaughters all the priests, both high and low; their marrow yields to sand. You would likely do the same: the golden calf or lamb pulled down and turned to trinkets, statues pummeled to powder and shard, columns pulled apart and down, and the whole place burned. Now a king shall live forever and the poet's word, the historian's hand, burn with obsequy long and long and long into the night.