Mystery Of Toil

Behold the mystery of toil

O you who are taken in the toils of mystery

the spade of the husbandman is the sceptre of the king

at the end of labour is the power of labour

I disport myself in the ruins of Eden

ecen as Leviathan in the false sea

and the sorrow that blackens your heart

is the myriad deaths by shick I am renewd

behold the mystery of toil

O you who are takes in the toils of mystery

all the heavens beneath me they serve me

they are my fields and my gardens and my orchards and pastures

my blood is wine and my breath the fire of madness

i life myselfe above the crown of the yod

I swin in the inviolate fountain

glory unto the Rose and the Cross

for the cross is extended unto the uttermost end

beyond space and time being and knowledge and delight

glory unto the Rose that is the minute point of this center

she is Nuit the circumference of all

and glory unto the Cross that is the heart of the Rose

behold the mystery of toil

O you who are takes in the toils of mystery

the whirlings of the universe are but the course of the blood in my heart

and its variety but my divers hairs

that shick I think to be myself is but infinite number

the change which you lament is the life of my rejoicing

the instability which makes your fear

is the waverings of balance by which I am assured