Christian Faeries

The trees speak to each other,
And the wind sings songs of joy.

I know that Fays do exist,
And the world is just my toy.

Solemn Priests say solemn words,
And the people dream and pray.

Bread is made into the Son,
And the Christ comes down to stay.

Faeries wait outside the church,
And the people are entranced.

Men pray like ancient Romans,
And the Fays perform their dance.

Faeries scoff at Latin Monks,
And the Monks call back quite gay,

“The Cross of Christ destroyed you.”
And the faeries dare to say,

"No more so than thee, dear friend.”



And the boy appeared that day.

The two thought he was crazy,
And the boy was very sad.

I was the boy, who met them,
And the two thought I was mad.

For I said, “Fays do exist,
And the world is just my toy.

Though I make the Roman Sign,
And the beads are my true Joy

I’m come to help the Christian
And the Faerie, join and tame.

Christ was born a humble Jew,
And the Mother just the same.

I am no Jew or Frenchman,
And the English are not me.

I do not pray with fashion,
And the Mass ends not with tea.

I fail in love to Hermes,
And the Aztecs have no son.

I am a Child of Eire,
And the God of truth, the one.

My God still has his secrets
And the Angels point their ears.

So I sing the pagan tunes,
And the Chants to Him I fear.

I pray with sadness in my soul
And the same is for my kin.

Worship with an Irish heart,
And the Lord shall hear within.”



Monk looked long at the Faerie
And the air was filled with mirth.

The Faerie beheld the Monk,
And the Faith had given birth

To a land where Roman Souls,
And the Pagan hearts are one.

The Greeks had an unnamed god
And the Christians gave the Son.

So the Boy took monk and myth,
And the truth he gave to both.

I am the boy, the boy is I
And the truth is this, I oath,

Truth eternal of the Christ,
And the truth of faerie Puck:

Fays and God go gaily on,
And the men can’t make a muck.



If the Faerie king is dead
And the spirits are not real,

Then my God has lifeless men,
And the faithful cannot kneel.

Passion in the myth, and life,
And the humdrum daily cares,

Are what make the love of Mass,
And the hate of Satan’s lairs.

So keep the Faerie woods and land,
And the tales both myth and true.

For without God men are damned,
And the Fays have naught to do.

And without Puck men are dead
And the God is very blue.

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