Bring Me Low

Today, I’m sharing a song I wrote two years ago and finally recorded a couple of months ago, which is dedicated to Magna Mater, Rhea-Kybele. It consists solely of my voice, without accompaniment. It recently occurred to me that, unless I share them here, virtually no one will ever hear my devotional songs– and that would be truly sad.

Blessed be Magna Mater!

Hail Rhea! Hail Kybele!

Hail Rhea-Kybele!

— Columbine

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Bring Me Low

Oh, bring me low…. Great Mother

Oh, bring me low….

Bring me low to the ground, where all the ancestors dwell, deep low and pulsing…. Great Mother

Bring me low in my bones, that shall shuck off this flesh, in Your embrace…. Great Mother

Low am I, Mother, who am but a fleeting breath of wind, and low is the depth of my voice singing Your praises

Lower me, as these roots are my legs planted…. In this Earth that calls me low and deep and true

Great Mother, bring me low, that I might know the living and the dying of the land, and know my place within it

Oh, bring me low…. Great Mother

Oh, bring me low….

I sing and stomp for You, Mother, that the rhythm be pleasing, and that the melody remind You…. Of me, Blessed Mother

Inseparable shall be my flesh from Yours upon my return, as is the pact of life…. Great Mother

Reveal to me the low path, rooted in the Earth– the humble path that pulls me in, and suits me oh so well

Bring me low, into the depth of where Your Eminence swells, the humble spring of Your Love…. Great Mother…. Of all things, great and small, living or unliving, static or in flux

Bring me low to dip my lips into Your waters which spring from below…. Great Mother of Rebirth

Bring me low, Great Mother

Oh, bring me low….

Image: Fountain of Cybele, Plaza De Cibeles, Madrid, Spain

Dark Lord of Light: A Treasury Hymn for the New Year

I am actually quite a bit late with composing something for the Treasury’s New Year, as it has already passed, though not very long ago. But, since tomorrow is secular new year, I suppose it’s not too, too late. ❤

O, Apollon, Yours is the coarse wind ripping through the tree branches, bare and clawing at the sky, ripe with the howl of Boreas. You drive a chariot of swift-winged swans, gliding through the air, and You direct the wolves’ hunt below, and the flight of their wily prey.

O, God of terror and beauty, Winter, Your Season, is both beautiful and terrible. Though we in this time may forfeit the knowledge of the true darkness of Winter, we remember traces of fear, deep in our bones.

You, the very darkness, are upon us now, veiled by a shroud of light. Ever growing, it spreads out across the land to awaken the slumbering flora. As time passes, as one Season becomes the next, each day has its turn to hold Your magnificent light. And each day, the light reveals a steadily building heat which soon shall envelope the land, in all its glorious anticipation.

With the warming will come the melted snows, to fill the rivers and streams, and the Spring rains shall seep into the Earth. Moisture is the catalyst, and it will herald the births of the new fauna, as surely as it entices the green-growing things. And all this is possible through You, O God of the liminal, of the sacred transition.

Be You now present as the old year falls away. Be You now the bridge over which we all shall cross. And in time, as the Seasons turn and turn again, may You be the dark embrace of Winter, veiled in light, to brighten our way through each long, cold night.

— Columbine

Hymn to Lykeios

(Reposted with permission)

Hail Lykeios, Wolf-king, O howling wind
Keeping the gate of the beginning and the end,
You who preceed the dawn,O burgeoning light
Herald of the day, and harkener of the night;
With harmonic chords you etherically sing
O light-born, ravenous, all-destroying king.
You who destroy equally the night and day
Each season proceeds from you, birth to decay
That as the sun marks the endless spin of time
So you direct the course of the season’s climb
And the sigh of its decline by your wolf-light
As twilight proceeds the dawn and ushers night.
Hail to you Wolf of the Cosmos, white as the sun
Hail to you, aether-born, Zeus’ golden son!
O bane of the Telchines, fierce one– you rise
As a fiery dancer upon the waves you devise,
The light of solar winds, and bellows of breeze
The life-producing churn of the fruitful seas,
O Lycian lord bear forth your blazing flame
To enrich the soul and burn away the stain;
Before the sparks of your torch all evil flies,
Woe to the corrupt whom your arrows despise,
But joyously greet you the righteous and just,
You who mingles the ashes with the dust.
O Lykeios, dancing on your father’s hand,
Upon us let your rays ever begninantly land.

— Lykeia