Remembrances VIII: The Shepherds of Europe

And there were in the same country shepherds abiding in the field, keeping watch over their flock by night.
And, lo, the angel of the Lord came upon them, and the glory of the Lord shone round about them: and they were sore afraid.
And the angel said unto them, Fear not: for, behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people. For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Saviour, which is Christ the Lord. And this shall be a sign unto you; Ye shall find the babe wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a manger.
And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host praising God, and saying, Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men.
And it came to pass, as the angels were gone away from them into heaven, the shepherds said one to another, Let us now go even unto Bethlehem, and see this thing which is come to pass, which the Lord hath made known unto us.
And they came with haste, and found Mary, and Joseph, and the babe lying in a manger.
And when they had seen it, they made known abroad the saying which was told them concerning this child.
And all they that heard it wondered at those things which were told them by the shepherds.

– Luke 2: 8-18

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I won’t go over old ground in this remembrance. It’s been two years since Father Bontini updated the remembrances for me. Since that time we, the Christian Britons, have lost our territories in Northern Scotland, but we have retained the land mass that used to constitute Wales and we have taken control of all the major isles – the Western Isles, the Orkney Islands, the Shetland Islands, the Isle of Skye, and the Isle of Man. Ireland, North and South, as well as England and Scotland, with the exception of Skye, belong to the Moslems. But the moral essence of Britain still lives in Arthur II’s Britain. It wouldn’t be accurate to say we are in a constant state of siege, but we are in a constant state of readiness for a siege. There have, for instance, been six major Moslem assaults on Britain – we are Britain – in the past year. But in between the assaults, life in Britain goes on in defiance of the Moslem and the liberal world around us.

Shakespeare graces our stage, true British shops and true British craftsmen are in abundance, and the old Book of Common Prayer, which is simply a liturgical version of the Bible, has been brought back. Much has been lost, but what we have now is sacred to us because we realize just how precious our heritage was, and still can be if we do not falter in our resolve to maintain white, Christian Britain.

What has taken place in Britain for the last half-century is part of a worldwide campaign to destroy the white race. The liberals hate Christ, but they cannot strike out at Him directly, so they attack the Europeans, who were and are the Christ-bearing race. By a strange metamorphosis, the liberals have renounced their white souls and made the destruction of the white race their ‘holy’ mission in life. And of course the colored heathen are quite willing to aid the liberals in their mission. In the end, if the plans of the liberals are not altered, they too will be eliminated by their colored minions, just as a pet snake will turn and strike his keeper, but that is not my concern. I am concerned about the whites who have remained faithful. They are my people and I must support them until the Lord sees fit to take me home.

In Britain and the rest of the European countries, the colored assault has come under the banner of Islam. In the United States, Banyon, Canada, and the other European satellite countries, the colored assault has been waged in the name of the sacred negro. The situation in all the European countries and those countries settled by Europeans is very fluid. Sometimes I hear of white setbacks and then I hear of white counter-attacks. Just last month, for instance, I heard that all of Bavaria was in the hands of the white Christians, but only two months prior to that I had heard that all of Germany belonged to the Moslems. Reports from the various European countries are sketchy and indeterminate. And in these remembrances I want to stick to events that I either witnessed myself or were witnessed and reported to me by close friends. What follows is an account from my friend, Arthur Walker, who used to run a private detective agency in Georgia. He is now a leader of the White Underground in what used to be called the United States of America.

– Rev. Christopher Grey

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The territory that we formerly held consisted roughly of the land masses of what used to be the states of Georgia and South Carolina. But we were forced to abandon those land masses because we simply lacked the men to defend them. Some whites, as you know, made their way across the ocean to Christian Britain. The rest of us have become part of the Underground. We keep contact with each other through the use of (I know you hate the devices but they are necessary) digital cell phones and other such communication devices. We have some members working as moles in the liberal population. They provide us with valuable information about the liberals’ army and police force.

We exist as a loose collection of clans, only we rove around more than the Scottish clans of old. I am, for want of a better word, the clan leader. Of course the leadership was thrust upon me because of my connection to you, Reverend. You have no idea what you mean to the white Christians of this nation. The old United States no longer exists as an independent nation. Personally I don’t think it ever did exist, but perhaps I am letting my Southern heritage influence me. Even if the Southland was the only true nation in the Northern Hemisphere, as I maintain, it no longer exists at present. What we have now is the United Republic of the Americas, which consists of what formerly constituted Canada, the United States, and Mexico. Now they are one united country with one government and one state-sponsored religion. Yes, the nation which once prided itself on the separation of church and state has now become part of a theocracy.

I’ve mentioned some of the uglier aspects of the new state religion before, but let me go through a few more of the details. The ‘worship’ services are conducted by a mixed group of clergymen, mostly Catholic priests with some Protestant ministers. The litany is a bizarre mixture of the Catholic Mass, the new Anglican Book of Prayer, and the Quran. But all the readings are geared toward negro worship. Just one example will suffice – when they say the Apostle’s Creed, they proclaim, “I believe in the sacred negro, the natural ruler of this heaven on earth, and I believe that the negro is the savior of all those who call on him by name. I believe in the holy Catholic Church of the negro, I believe in one God, who is the negro, and I believe that the negro will come to rule over all the earth when whiteness has left the earth. Amen.”

That creed is recited in every church throughout the United Republic of the Americas, by every white person left alive and by all the colored citizens of the United Republic. What can we say of such a creed? Do all whites believe it? It’s difficult to know how many whites have given their internal assent. Every once in a while we get a breakaway, a man or woman who has had enough and seeks to join the Underground. What follows is a story of one breakaway. I suppose, lest I forget, I should tell you that every member of the white clan takes an oath of allegiance to King Arthur II. You see, we need, like all men, a particular land and one particular king to whom we pledge our allegiance. The wheel has come full circle. We have come home to Christian Britain. And when we conquer the Americas, we will not, this time, throw the tea into the ocean. We will welcome a visit from our King, who serves the King of Kings. Now, on to the story of one man’s journey from darkness to light. Such stories never get old.

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Act I, Scene 1. The Story of John Taylor, a Priest in the Church of the United Republic of the Americas.

I was six years old when my parents were forced to give me up to the state. As you know, the new Constitution of the United Republic requires that a white man who wants to marry a white woman must get a special dispensation from the state. Having obtained that dispensation to marry he must then agree to have no more than one child. If the white female gives birth to a second child, one of the children must be turned over to the state to be executed or to be trained as a priest in the One Holy Catholic Church of the Negro. The life or death of the white child is up to the discretion of the state. My parents decided to keep my baby brother and offer me up to the state. I don’t think they did this because they hated me; my memories of them are of two kind, fond parents. But my baby brother was more vulnerable and more likely be to executed to spare the expense that goes with the care of infants. So I was given to the state in the hope – I know my parents had that hope – that I would be made a priest and not a corpse. And such was the case. I became a priest. I’ve learned since then that over three-fourths of the second white children are executed. But I still have no idea why I was not one of the children executed by the state.

I won’t bore you with the details about the course of study I went through in order to become a priest of the United Republic of the Americas. Suffice it to say it was long and thorough. Every aspect of liberal culture was shoved into my heart, mind, and soul. By the time I was ordained at age 22, I was eminently qualified to go forth as an apostle for the Lords of Liberaldom – the sacred negroes.

For my first two years I was a parish priest. I said the sacred negro mass and I attended to the needs of my parishioners, which meant I brought them Holy Communion when they were sick, the wafer representing the blood of the negroes who had been slain by white racists, and I did the usual visitations and such.

Then, two years into my parish work, I was given a new assignment. I was sent to work as a special counselor in the rehabilitation unit of the United Republic of the Americas. It was my job to visit whites who had been imprisoned for racism. I had to decide whether they could be rehabilitated or whether rehabilitation was impossible. If I recommended rehabilitation, they were sent to rehabilitation camps, but if I thought they could not be rehabilitated they were executed. Did I feel any remorse when I labeled a white man or white woman “unfit for rehabilitation”? No, I did not. You must remember that I had been trained from birth to believe that white racists were evil. So I felt no guilt or remorse when I sent white racists to their doom.

You might wonder how many white racists I recommended for execution. I can’t give the exact number, but I would estimate that I sent at least 200 out of the 300 I interviewed to be executed. Of course, now their faces haunt my dreams, but they didn’t haunt me back then.

I think I began to question the religion of the sacred negro – but I can’t be sure that my doubt didn’t start before that – when I was sent to interview Paul Davis. I was thirty years old at the time and Paul Davis was twenty-eight. He had been accused of marrying a white woman without special dispensation, and he was also accused of fathering four children by that same woman without reporting any of the births to the state. His case was an extreme one – he seemed like a recalcitrant racist. I had little doubt of what my recommendation to the Council would be. But still, I was a professional, and I was determined to conduct my interview with an open, liberal mind. I have since learned that there is no mind more closed than a liberal one, but that is not part of this story.

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Act I, Scene 2. John Taylor’s Interview of Paul Davis, Conducted in Davis’s Prison Cell.

Taylor: I see by the records that you were imprisoned two weeks ago. I would like to help transfer you from this prison to a rehabilitation center. Would you like that?

Davis: No, I would not like that.

Taylor: Then you prefer to stay in prison?

Davis: No, I would prefer to get out of prison to be with my wife and family.

Taylor: But you have no legitimate wife, you were married without permission from the state. And you did not turn your children over to the state after their births.

Davis: Why should I turn my children over to the executioners?

Taylor: Come now, you know the answer as well as I do. Let me read to you from the Liberal Code of Law, which is sacred to all true citizens of the Republic. I quote, “When any white male who has married with the proper state approval fathers a second white child, he must turn one of the white children over to the state. And when a white male marries a white female without permission from the state, his life, his wife’s life, and all his children will be subject to execution by the state.” Did you know that was the law?

Davis: Yes, I did.

Taylor: Then why didn’t you comply with the law?

Davis: Because I don’t recognize the validity of the law. I hold to another law, it begins with…

Taylor: I must stop you right there before you incriminate yourself any further. You were going to refer to a certain book and a certain God depicted in that book. Don’t utter His name or mention that book in my presence, or I shall be forced to terminate this interview right now and recommend that you be executed as soon as is humanly possible.

Davis: I knew I was a dead man as soon as I was arrested. But I saved my family – I made sure that they found refuge in the White Underground before the Liberal Police came for me.

Taylor: (closing the book in which he has been taking notes). Then there is nothing left to be said. I’ll mark you down as an irredeemable white racist and recommend that you be put to death.

Davis: Without a trial?

Taylor: Of course without a trial. You know that white racists are not entitled to the protection of the law. They are outside the law.

Davis: In most cases. But the sons and daughters of the white Illuminati who have transcended whiteness and become spiritually black, and any offspring they might have, are entitled to due process. Isn’t that so?

Taylor: Yes, it is so. But how does that apply to you? Surely you’re not claiming to be related to one of the Illuminati?

Davis: But I am related to one of the Illuminati. Governor Grover is my father. As you know, all white children are required to take their mother’s name, in keeping with the principles of feminism. But if you check the records, you will see that I am the biological son of Governor Grover. I never knew him – he was separated from my mother when I was one year old, but I am his son, his one and only child, a fully authorized and certified child.

Taylor: If what you say is true, then you will be entitled to a trial. I’ll check on your story and get back to you.

Davis: Yes, you do that.

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Act I, Scene 3, John Taylor’s Aside.

I did check on Davis’s story and discovered he was not lying. His father was the Governor of the district. He told me that he wanted nothing to do with his son, that he had had nothing to do with his upbringing, but he did acknowledge that Paul Davis was his only child. So I turned in the necessary paperwork and Davis’s trial was set for two weeks hence.

It might seem curious that such a government as ours should give anyone a trial. Why go through the motions of a trial when the verdict has been predetermined? But that is the point. Liberals need trials to justify themselves. They believe in liberalism, to a certain extent. The trials are their version of ‘Lord, I believe, help my unbelief.’ The more illegitimate the regime, the more legalese and paperwork is needed to convince the rulers of the revolutionary regime that they really do constitute a legitimate government. The French Jacobins, the Russian communists, the American 1776ers all cloaked their revolutionary movements in reams of legalese and paperwork. They labeled falsehood self-evident, and truth subversive. Thus reenacting, as all revolutionary tribunals do, the trial and crucifixion of our Lord. So, observing all the rules of criminal procedure and with all the proper liberal legalese, Davis was tried for high treason against the United Republic of the Americas.

Once I presented the paperwork, I thought my work was done. But I was in for a shock. When I came into work two days after my meeting with Governor Grover, I had a short cryptic note on my desk: “You are to defend Paul Davis. Signed, Governor Grover.” The note sent chills down my spine. If I truly tried to defend Paul Davis, wouldn’t I, after the trial was over, be accused of an excessive sympathy with an irredeemable white racist? And wouldn’t that make me a white racist, subject to the same penalty as all white racists? I asked for clarification in a return memo, but I got no response. In desperation I went to Father Todd, an older priest who lived in the rectory with me; he was the parish priest who generally said mass while I was the special priest in charge of the rehabilitation process. I occasionally assisted at mass, but in the main I stuck to the rehabilitation work. But I needed advice, and Father Todd was at hand.

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Act I, Scene 4.

Taylor: They’ve asked me to defend Paul Davis.

Todd: I thought that was an open and shut case, that he was already sentenced to death for white racism, which is treason.

Taylor: There was a complication. It turned out that his father is Governor Grover.

Todd: That’s some twist of fate. Did the governor ask you to defend Davis?

Taylor: Yes, and I’m rather worried about it.

Todd: Why?

Taylor: I’m afraid I might be accused of racism after the trial is over, or maybe even during the trial. After all, it’s only natural for people to think you share the views of someone you defend.

Todd: I think your worries are unfounded. Just let him speak for himself and then back away.

Taylor: You mean I should just put him on the stand and let him denounce himself.

Todd: Yes.

Taylor: But that wouldn’t be a very good defense.

Todd: You’re not obligated to make a good defense, you are simply obligated to put up some defense. I highly recommend that you let the racist damn himself, and then walk away. I think that is what Governor Grover wants as well.

Taylor: That sounds like the best plan. Thank you, Father.

Todd: It was my pleasure.

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Act II, Scene 1. The Trial of Paul Davis for High Treason.

[Twelve jurors, four black men, four black women, and four white women are seated. No white males are permitted on juries, not even white males who are members of the Illuminati. The white Illuminati are, however, permitted to be judges. And in this case the judge is a member of the Illuminati; his name is Judge Parker. The prosecuting attorney is also a member of the white Illuminati.]

Bailiff: Here ye, hear ye, the most illustrious high court of the United Republic of the Americas is in session, the honorable Judge Parker presiding. All rise.

[All rise and then are seated.]

Parker: Paul Davis, you are accused of high treason by marrying a white female without the permission of the state, and subsequently fathering four children by the same female without offering up three of those  children to the state for execution or for training in the priesthood. How do you plead?

Davis: Not guilty.

Parker: Do you deny the truth of the charges then?

Davis: No, but I do not acknowledge that marrying a woman of my own race and fathering children by that woman is a crime of any kind. Therefore, my plea is not guilty.

Prosecutor: I rest my case. The defendant Paul Davis is guilty as charged.

Taylor: The defense also rests.

Parker: But you haven’t presented a defense of your client.

Taylor: It was my client’s wish that he be allowed to defend himself. And I complied with his request. Therefore the defense rests.

Parker: All right then, I’ll pronounce sentence. Paul Davis, you have been found guilty of the most serious and heinous crime known to man. You are a white racist. I sentence you to be handed over to the torturers and then executed. There can be no mercy for white racists, because a white racist is outside of the orbit of grace that has been established by our religious tenets. Grace comes from the negro, who is the god of nature. Outside of the natural world there is no salvation. Take the racist wretch away.

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Act II, Scene 2. John Taylor’s Aside.

I was not a lawyer, I didn’t spend a lot of time in the courts, so I can’t say for sure that Davis’s trial for treason was the shortest on record, but I think it must have been, because the defendants, I was told, usually tried to deny their racism. Davis came right out with it. He even seemed to think his racism was a virtue. I was very far from approving of his views, but I was struck by the boldness of his racism. Truly he was a brave man, albeit a brave man with a perverted, distorted view of existence.

Something else struck me about the trial. I knew Davis was to be sentenced to death. My own recommendations had sent many men and some women to their deaths, but the words, “handed over to the torturers,” struck a discordant chord in my soul. “Why was it necessary to torture the white racists?” I asked myself. And my answer? “It was necessary to torture the white racists to impress upon other whites the seriousness of white racism.” Did I accept that answer? Not entirely. I was uneasy. And Father Todd sensed my uneasiness. The Sunday after Davis’s sentencing, two weeks before his scheduled torture and execution, I concelebrated a mass with Father Todd. After the mass we sat down to breakfast together in the rectory.

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Act II, Scene 3.

Todd: This jelly is delicious, it’s homemade, you must try some.

Taylor: No thank you, father.

Todd: Come on, you can’t be watching your weight, you don’t have any weight on your frame to watch.

Taylor: (placing a small blob of jelly on his toast). Thank you, I will have a taste.

Todd: (studying Taylor’s face). What’s the matter, Jonathan? You don’t seem yourself.

Taylor: I’m sorry if I’m not much company.

Todd: Oh, don’t worry about that. Nobody can be cheery all the time. You’re not obligated to put on a cheery face just for me, but if there is something troubling you that I can help you with, I’d be only too willing…

Taylor: It’s really nothing.

Todd: Well, now I know there is something troubling you. Every time, in my years in the priesthood, that someone told me that their troubles were ‘really nothing’ their troubles turned out to be really something.

Taylor: Really, Father, it’s really…

Todd: Yes, I know, it’s really nothing. Now that we’ve established that it’s really nothing, why don’t you tell me what the ‘really nothing is’ that is bothering you?

Taylor: Well, it’s not exactly something I can put a name to. I suppose it comes to this: I feel degraded. I feel that I’ve been part of a shameful affair.

Todd: Are you referring to the trial and conviction of Paul Davis?

Taylor: Yes.

Todd: Listen, Jonathan, it’s not always easy to accept the existence of pure evil. But we know from the tenets of our faith that pure evil exists in the white race. We must oppose that evil with our whole heart, mind, and soul. And evil is not some disembodied spirit, it is located in the hearts of white people, particularly white men. But I’m not telling you something you don’t know. You’ve been raised on the Baltimore Catechism of Vatican IV.

Taylor: Yes, I have.

Todd: Then you know that we are created to love the sacred negro with all our heart, mind, and soul, and to hate all white men who have not gone through the process of metamorphosis.

Taylor: But are white people, and most especially the white males, really so evil? Don’t they have some common humanity with the rest of mankind?

Todd: No, they don’t. I think in your heart you know they don’t. You know your catechism.

Taylor: But then, by what right do we exist? Aren’t we white?

Todd: Now you really surprise me. We are not white. We have gone through that great spiritual cleansing that has made us whole again, we have attained oneness with the colored races.

Taylor: But we don’t even torture animals, yet Davis was sentenced to be tortured.

Todd: It is a necessary deterrent. After all, animals are not racist.

Taylor: Well, it still troubles me.

Todd: Look, Jonathan, take a week off, go to the mountains or some place. Go on a retreat to Mt. Nelson Mandela, but go somewhere to clear your mind and your soul of the rot that is clouding your vision. You are needed here, don’t lose everything you’ve built up.

Taylor: Well, the trial ended early, so maybe I can afford to take a week’s vacation.

Todd: By all means, you can’t afford not to.

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Act II, Scene 4. The Retreat House on Mt. Le Conte, Now Named Mt. Nelson Mandela, in the Tennessee Great Smoky Mountains.

[It is the fourth day of Taylor’s retreat. He has seen no one until today, when he encounters an old man who seems, like Ahab in Melville’s Moby Dick, to be a man who has just stepped away from a stake where he was being burned alive.]

Old Man: Greetings, I hope I am not disturbing you.

Taylor: (sitting on the porch with a book). No, I’m just a little surprised to see someone in this area; it’s pretty isolated.

Old Man: Yes, it is isolated.

Taylor: May I ask you what you are doing up here?

Old Man: Why, are you some sort of a policeman?

Taylor: Of course not, I’m a priest and this is the retreat house of my order. I didn’t mean to pry into your business.

Old Man: Didn’t you?

Taylor: Well, I guess I did. You don’t usually see white men roaming around the countryside without a permit.

Old Man: How do you know that I don’t have a permit?

Taylor: It must be prominently displayed on your outermost garment, and I don’t see it on your person.

Old Man: That’s very perceptive of you. And in point of fact, you are right, I don’t have a permit to roam through these mountains or any other place in the United Republic of the Americas. I am what you would call a recalcitrant white racist. The type of man you would recommend for execution.

Taylor: How do you know that about me?

Old Man: It could be because I saw your picture in the paper during the trial of Paul Davis. Or it could be that you once recommended me for execution.

Taylor: (looks closely at the old man). Have I ever seen you before?

Old Man: I was clean shaven then, without the beard and the long hair, but you still should have recognized me. A man ought to remember the occasion when he sends another man to his death.

Taylor: If what you tell me is true, I can only say I did what my conscience and my duty dictated.

Old Man: I’m sure you did. But that doesn’t excuse you. What you did was evil and what you are still doing is evil.

Taylor: (standing up and assuming a defensive posture) What is your purpose here?

Old Man: Calm down, I’m not here to hurt you. Nor am I here to chastise you for sending me to be tortured and executed.

Taylor: Then why are you here?

Old Man: I’m here to play Ananias to your Saul of Tarsus.

Taylor: I don’t understand you.

Old Man: When St. Paul was called Saul, he persecuted Christians, but then he encountered the living God on the road to Damascus. After that encounter the Lord sent Ananias to him because our Lord needed Paul, “to bear my name before the Gentiles, and Kings, and the children of Israel.”

Taylor: But I’m not this Saul you speak of.

Old Man: Of course you’re not Saul, but you are like unto him in that you are persecuting Christians.

Taylor: Even if what you say is true, you are not Ananias or whatever his name was.

Old Man: I’m taking upon me the role of Ananias, and you, even if you are not St. Paul, are going to bear our Lord’s name to the Gentiles and Kings and the children of Israel.

Taylor: I have a cell phone with me.

Old Man: Yes?

Taylor: One call and the police will come and get you, you are an escaped white racist.

Old Man: That’s true, but what makes you think the police can find me? They couldn’t hold me in prison after you marked me for execution, and they’ll never be able to get me out of these mountains.

Taylor: What is to stop me from laying hold of you and making you wait for the police?

Old Man: You’re welcome to try, but I wouldn’t advise it.

Taylor: You must be at least forty years older than I am, surely you couldn’t resist me?

Old Man: (he advances on Taylor and throws him to the ground with ease). Let’s have no more talk of restraining me against my will.

[The old man helps Taylor up.]

Taylor: All right, I can’t restrain you, and you claim you can elude the police. What is it you want, and please don’t tell me you want to play Ananias to my Saul.

Old Man: But that is what I’m going to do. Let’s go inside the cabin.

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Act II, Scene 5. John Taylor’s Aside.

The old man spent three days with me. I was the wedding guest, and he was the Ancient Mariner who held me with his glittering eye. I kept telling myself that I should call the police or I should run from his presence. But I was fascinated by him. He told me at the onset that he was going to tell me the actual history of my people and once I had heard their story, the Old Man, henceforth called the Ancient Mariner, said that I would want to resume my place in the European story. What was the European story and what was my place in it? The Ancient Mariner started with God’s plan to create mankind: Satan rebelled against Him because he hated the little, sniveling creatures called men. And he showed his contempt and hatred for mankind with the first man in the Garden of Eden. From that time on, according to the Ancient Mariner, Satan has been in a constant state of war with mankind. The European people became his main focus because they loved the Son of God who died on the cross for their sins.

It was all quite new to me. I had heard that Christ had once been important to white racists, and I knew that my church had once (before His name was banned) included His name in the litany along with the other lesser prophets, but I did not know that Christ had once been considered a god nor that He was still revered by some Europeans who were still living.

The Ancient Mariner wove Bible history and European history together in one integral story. Shakespeare, Scott, Dickens, and a whole canon of European poets and sages became, in the tale of the Ancient Mariner, one with Isaiah, Jeremiah, St. Paul, and the Apostles. And they all pointed to one magnificent beginning, the incarnation of Jesus Christ, and one magnificent denouement, the crucifixion and resurrection of Jesus Christ. Maybe if I had grown up in the old liberal days, when the Christ story as told by the European people was still permitted to be told, albeit told only to be ridiculed, I would not have been so impressed with the Ancient Mariner’s tale. But it came to me fresh and new, like a bolt of lightning from another world. And there was something else. The Ancient Mariner possessed a passion and fire that I had never known. My whole life had been guided by one principle: to subdue all the passions of my heart, because they might be racist, and racism was evil. But right in front of me was an impassioned man with a heart on fire and he was an unapologetic white racist! It was something to behold, but still I was not quite convinced. I was intrigued and fascinated by the Ancient Mariner, but I needed to know more.

In the evening of the third day, sitting by the fire in the living room of the retreat house, I asked the Ancient Mariner to tell me his story. He looked at me with his glittering eye, which was pure fire, and said, “I suppose it is time for my story. You’ve been an attentive listener and you do in part believe. Perhaps my story will be the final push.”

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Act III, Scene 1. The Ancient Mariner’s Aside.

I grew up in what was then called New York City (it is now called New Africa). I was raised in the Roman Catholic faith at a time when Christ was still nominally seen as the Savior of mankind, in that we said our prayers to Him and not to the sacred negro as you do now. But although Christ was still theoretically the reason we went to mass, in those days the social gospel, the gospel of diversity, was the driving force behind the mass. And when Pope Francis I came out with the encyclical on the black race, in which he developed the point that collectively they were co-equals with Christ and just as necessary for our salvation, the stage was set for the eventual elimination of Christ from the mass. But I don’t want to get too far ahead of myself. The point is that I was raised with some contact with the actual Christ story. It was not completely suppressed in those days. Nor were the works of literature, music, and art from Christian Europe suppressed in those days as they are now. Still, despite some exposure to the Christ story, it didn’t take. I wasn’t moved by it. That could have been because of the dry, lifeless way it was presented to me, or possibly it was just my own perversity, but whatever the reason I became completely enthralled with liberalism. I fancied myself a great artist, because I wrote songs and played an electric guitar. If records from that time period had not been expunged, you could look up my name and see that I had a few best-selling albums.

My most popular song was a protest song I wrote at the time when the African nation of Banyon was being run by a white minority, about 10% of the population. There was a black terrorist in that country who was jailed for rape and murder. He was guilty of those crimes and many more, but I, like the entire Western intelligentsia at the time, thought all the blacks in Banyon were saints and all the whites in Banyon were devils. So I wrote a song about the great African Saventi. I still remember, God forgive me, the refrain:

A man without taint
Fights the forces of hell
Saventi the saint
Will fight till he hears the whites’ death knell.

I went across America and most of Europe singing that song and others like it. Besides getting rich from my albums, I also earned a letter from President Saventi and an invitation to visit him in Banyon after the fall of the white government and the election of Saventi as the first Banyonese president of the new republic. This was two years after my tour. I eagerly assented. I went to Banyon as a Catholic would go to Rome for an audience with the Pope. Banyon was my Rome and Saventi my Pope.

Before I tell you of my meeting with Saventi I must tell you that I was in a love with a white woman from Banyon. She was my age, which was twenty-six. She wrote to me during my anti-apartheid tour and subsequently came to visit me. She was beautiful and she was a fervent anti-apartheid white. “I am ashamed of my people, in fact, I don’t regard them as my people,” she said on many occasions. “I will fight apartheid with all my heart and soul, and if it takes bloody revolution, I’ll take my part in that.” I assured her that I didn’t think it would take a bloody revolution.

“The world is against the white supremacists in Banyon. Soon there will be elections and Banyon will be a free black sate.” I was right about the elections. Apartheid ended two years after Jennifer’s visit to the States. But was it bloodless? Only while the election was taking place. Afterwards there was a bloody massacre of whites. But of course I was blind to that massacre as were the rest of the liberal whites throughout the world. I probably would have remained blind had it not been for Jennifer. But let me tell you of my dinner with the great Saventi. I’ll pick up the conversational thread as the dinner was winding down.”

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Act III, Scene 2.

Saventi: You know it was great artists like yourself who helped pave the way to the Free Republic of Banyon?

AM: I’m glad I played some small part in the establishment of your Republic, but really there were so many people of the West who supported your cause.

Saventi: Yes, but most did not have a public voice. You had a public voice, and you had the courage to use that voice. You are a true citizen of Banyon.

AM: I am honored.

Saventi: But all is not perfect here in Banyon. There are still some in the West, the white fascists, who claim we are allied with the communists and we are massacring the whites. These are base lies.

AM: What can I do to help you?

Saventi: You can now sing the praises of the free black, integrated Banyon just as you used to sing about the evils of white, apartheid Banyon.

AM: I will, I’ve already started writing a song about the new Banyon.

Saventi: Excellent, and now I know you must be tired. I’ll have one of my wives show you to your quarters.

AM: Thank you, I am rather tired. But I must ask you one more question.

Saventi: Just one?

AM: (smiling). Just one for now. I made the acquaintance of one of your citizens, an anti-apartheid activist, during my concert tours. I heard from her regularly up until the election. But since that time, I have not heard from her. I wonder if you could help me get in touch with her.

Saventi: She is a sweetheart of yours?

AM: (blushing) Yes, I suppose she is.

Saventi: Say no more. I will help you find her.

AM: Ah, there is just one difficulty. She may have stopped writing because she has found someone else. I don’t want to embarrass her if she really doesn’t want to see me.

Saventi: I understand. I will make discreet inquiries and then let you know. What is her name?

AM: Her name is Jennifer Dawson.

Saventi: Don’t worry, you shall hear from her, I’ll see to that. And in the morning I’ll have one of my men show you around the black Free Republic of Banyon so that you can refute the white fascists of your nation.

AM: I don’t need to see it in order to believe in the free state of Banyon. I’ve seen you and I believe in you.

Saventi: As always, you are too kind.

[Exit the AM, with an escort, to his bedchamber]

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Act III, Scene 3. Ancient Mariner’s Aside.

The next day I was given a sumptuous breakfast, but my host was not present. I was told he had some important business to attend to, by the man who was to be my guide through the capital city of Banyon. I was disappointed that President Saventi could not be my guide, but I certainly understood. He was an important man.

I was taken through sections of the capital city by my black guide along with two armed black bodyguards. “White fascists make it necessary,” my guide explained. But I didn’t see whites anywhere. What I saw was absolute squalor and hostile looking black men and women. I tried to beat down my former image of the capital when it had been ruled by whites. The liberals showed those pictures, prior to the revolution, in order to show how disgustingly white the city was. But in doing so they gave people like me a glimpse of a clean, well-run city which was a shocking contrast to the new capital city. But in the end I put it down to “the growing pains of a country that has thrown off colonialism,” and tried to think good thoughts about the new Free Black Republic of Banyon.

Although what I saw of Banyon was not very uplifting, there were whole areas that I was not allowed to see at all. “Too dangerous, there might be white fascists there,” was all I was told. So my tour was not very enlightening or uplifting. When I returned to the Presidential Palace, I was given another wonderful supper, but my host was not in attendance. His first deputy did attend, but when I asked him about Jennifer Dawson, he told me he knew nothing of such a woman nor had “his excellency” told him anything about the matter. I was taken completely by surprise when at the end of the dinner, I was told that I would be taken to the airport at 10 a.m. in the morning.

“I hope you had a pleasant visit with us,” was the final words of the first deputy.

Back in my room I was frantic. I had come to see the new Banyon, but that was really secondary. My main reason for coming had been to see the woman I loved. Now I was told that I had to leave Banyon without seeing her. It was unbelievable to me. How could Saventi send me away without seeing Jennifer? Could it be that he had discovered she had found someone else? That had to be it. That would also explain why I was being sent away so suddenly. The great, kind, and good Saventi wanted to spare me the pain and embarrassment of finding out that the woman I loved was not in love with me. But still, I wanted to see her, because love always hopes against all odds. I didn’t doubt Saventi’s kindness, but I still wanted to see Jennifer. How could I convince Saventi to let me see Jennifer?

What followed was providential, although I wouldn’t have named it so at the time, because I didn’t believe in Providence, I believed in liberalism, and the liberal’s God is the black man.

There was a knock at the window, and through the window came a black Rumpelstiltskin.

“Do you wish to find the young lady called Jennifer Dawson?”

“Yes, do you know of her?”

“Certainly.”

“Could you tell me where she is?”

“No, I cannot tell you, but I can show you where she is, but we must leave here immediately.”

So I left immediately with a pint-sized negro who insisted on being paid $10,000 American dollars for taking me to Jennifer Dawson. What the greedy little opportunist didn’t know was that I would have paid him ten times that amount. I was rich, I had made a fortune with my anti-apartheid protest songs. But I did have enough sense to withhold $5,000 of the money.

“You’ll get the rest when I see Jennifer.”

“Certainly, I understand,” the little dwarf intoned in a nauseatingly smooth voice.

The black Rumpelstiltskin did not possess a car, but he knew where I could rent one without any questions asked. So I went with him and paid an exorbitant price for one night’s use of a broken down black Cadillac. The enormously fat negro who rented the car to me seemed to be, facially, a dead ringer for the greasy Rumpelstiltskin. I assumed they were related, which made me feel a little better about the secrecy of my trip. Maybe the fat negro would not squeal on his cousin or brother, whatever the dwarf’s relation to him was.

I did the driving; the dwarfish negro’s legs were too short to reach the gas pedal, while the dwarf gave me directions. After about a 90 minute drive, we came to a vast plain with only a few trees. My companion told me to stop the car at the bottom of the embankment. We both got out of the car.

“This is as far as I go.”

“What do you mean?”

“My cousin will send a car for me, with my two brothers in it. The one will drive me back, and the other will wait for you to drive you back.”

“But I’m not paying you the rest of the money until I see Jennifer.”

“You will see her. If you go to the top of that hill, you can look down and see a prison camp for white fascists. Jennifer Dawson is in that camp.”

“But she was not a white fascist, she was an anti-apartheid activist. This is a horrendous mistake. I will see Saventi about this.”

“It was Saventi who ordered her imprisoned.”

“I don’t believe that!”

“Saventi ordered the imprisonment of all white fascists on the day of his inauguration.”

“That can’t be true, the press would have reported it.”

“Well, they didn’t. And what I tell you is true. Jennifer Dawson is in that prison camp. But if you don’t believe me, that is your privilege, I’ll go now.”

I saw another car pulling up with only one person in it. One of the midget’s cousins must have been following us. I didn’t have a gun, but I had youth and considerable strength on my side. I took my five thousand from the dwarf and beat his cousin to a pulp.

“You won’t get any money at all until you take me to Jennifer Dawson. And if what you say is true, you won’t be paid in full until you help me get her out of that prison.”

The saving grace for me or for any man, and by grace I mean Him from whom all grace flows, was that I had one spark of humanity left in me: I genuinely loved that woman. My love for her made me man enough to treat those two blacks like the savages they were instead of like the deities that I and my fellow liberals said they were.

Through a series of bribes I was able to get Jennifer past the camp guards and out to the bottom of the hill from which we started. What I saw en route to Jennifer’s cell was something I’ll never forget. It was something out of Dante, where poor, tortured men and women, all white men and white women, were suffering through every indignity and every torture ever conceived. If I could have done it, I would have freed them all and killed all their black tormentors. But I couldn’t, so I tried to free Jennifer. When I saw her, I did not at first recognize her. Her naked body was emaciated, and she was a mass of bruises from head to foot. Only her eyes, which burned with a special light, told me that she was Jennifer Dawson. I wrapped Jennifer in my shirt and carried her from the prison. I placed her in the back seat of the car. When I heard cries of, “A prisoner has escaped!” I started up the car. Neither the midget nor his cousin tried to stop me, but they kept yelling to the guards to hurry up before I got away. We did get away from the immediate vicinity of the prison camp, but when the car ran out of gas, I was forced to walk on, carrying Jennifer in my arms, until we left the desert behind and came to one of Banyon’s many jungles.

I spent three days trying to get deeper into the jungle without taxing Jennifer’s strength too much. I didn’t know if we were being followed or not. But I didn’t want to make us easy to find if we were being followed. I carried Jennifer a good deal of the time, which made for slow going, but Jennifer simply couldn’t walk very far. On the third day I found a rather hospitable looking cave that I thought would serve as a place where Jennifer and I could stay while she regained her strength. As it turned out Jennifer and I were not the only whites who had decided to seek refuge in the cave. We had stumbled on the beginnings of a white colony in the midst of the jungles of Banyon.

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Act IV. The Colony.

[Wooded area outside the cave. The Ancient Mariner’s name was and is David Morgan.]

DM: I can’t tell from the outside just how far that cave extends.

Reverend Hill: No, you can’t. That is why we decided it made a good refuge for us.

DM: How many are you?

RH: There are exactly 441 white refugees who are making their home here. There will be 443 if you and your lady stay here.

DM: How did you all get here? Did you come here together?

RH: No, we didn’t come here together. When the terrible bloodletting started, the whites who could fled to wherever they found a road not blocked with black savages. Most of them were cut down, but some made it to the jungle. At first we were a small band of twenty, but gradually, over the last six months, we have increased our number to the 441 you see here.

DM: Jennifer has been telling me a little of what happened after the end of apartheid, but I didn’t press her for too many details, because it seems to exhaust her to talk about it too much.

RH: That is understandable.

DM: She was raped and tortured.

RH: Yes, I assumed as much. I’m afraid that is the norm, not an aberration in the new black Free Republic of Banyon. On the night of the election I saw white women being dragged through the streets, tortured, raped, and made, while being tortured and raped, to suffer every other indignity that could be heaped on human beings. They were violated, not only in their bodies, but in their souls. Some white men fought for their wives and children, but they were unarmed and unprepared for the savagery of the attack. Most of the men were butchered.

DM: May I ask how you managed to escape?

RH: Let me first say that I didn’t deserve to escape. I was one of the clergymen, we were legion, who clamored for the end of apartheid. It was the Christian thing to do, I said, because we were all God’s children and so on and so on. Reality and I were not friends. But I was forced to look at the reality of the black man on that night of sorrows, the night that Banyon became a free black republic.

I had called for a special election evening service to give praise to God for setting the blacks of Banyon free from their oppressors. I was confident that they would be freed, because the polls said that the anti-apartheid forces would win. The relentless pressure from the West and from whites like me from inside Banyon had finally turned the whites in Banyon against themselves. They wanted the world to love them, they no longer wanted to be called racists.

DM: Did everyone here vote for an end to apartheid?

RH: No, there are many here that voted against ending apartheid, but they still had to suffer from the sinful, willful ignorance of people like me. But I must say there has been no rancor from those people. We are all in the same boat now, and they have chosen not to shun us.

DM: I’m not a native of Banyon, but I was an anti-apartheid activist in my country.

RH: I know that, I recognized you when you came in. I used to have some of your albums.

DM: It seems like years ago, but it was only one week ago that I was being wined and dined by Saventi. Now, I plan to kill him.

RH: I don’t think you will be allowed anywhere near him.

DM: We’ll see. Right now, I want to help Jennifer recover. Is there much danger of discovery here?

RH: There is a slight danger, but the natural savages of color do not like to venture out of the friendly confines of the city. Strange, isn’t it? You would think, based on the rhetoric of men like me, that the noble savages would be more comfortable in the jungle than the unnatural white men. But that is not the case. The negroes have been too busy, for the last six months, looting and destroying the formerly white cities of Banyon, to venture out into the jungles of Banyon. So we are safe for a time. But eventually, when they have made the cities unlivable, they will come looking for white settlements to loot. That is when they will get a surprise.

DM: How so?

RH: They will find formerly passive whites who will fight to the last man. Everyone here now knows about the black race.

DM: Will you have a chance?

RH: Not much of a chance, but we will have no chance at all if we don’t fight.

DM: You say you were an Anglican cleric, but the people here consult you about their physical ailments.

RH: I was a late vocation. After I graduated from medical school, I decided I was not cut out for medicine. I shifted to divinity school and took orders in the Anglican Church. From that time on, I plagued the world and the whites of Banyon with my self-righteous pap about freedom and equality.

DW: As a medical man, what do you think of Jennifer’s chances?

RH: As a medical man, I can’t say what her chances are. She was raped by Saventi and then he turned her over to his special troops to be raped and tortured by them. Then she was taken to that prison camp where you found her. It’s a wonder she has lived this long. I think her desire to see you again kept her alive.

DM: When you spoke with her what did she say?

RH: She felt guilty for her part in the blood bath, that much I know. But I assured her that she was not alone, that I was a greater offender than she was. Still, she had to tell me of that night.

“The bloodletting was beyond horror, Reverend, it was something unearthly, it was as if the devil had come up from hell to urge his black minions on and on to greater and greater atrocities. I saw true evil that night. All my life I had spoken out against evil white men. I realized on that terrible night that it is only white men, white men who love the devil’s antagonist, who can help against the evil of black barbarism. I spit on the U.N. and all those phony freedom loving organizations that bid us love the noble black savages while hating our own people.”

DM: I did the same thing.

RH: So did I and so did all the clear-thinking, kind, compassionate liberals of the West. In the name of love, we demeaned the God of love in order to go whoring after the devil’s own, the black barbarians.

DM: Is there really a devil, Reverend?

RH: Yes, there is. What has happened in Banyon is the proof. Mere psychology cannot explain Banyon. We need recourse to the Gospels in order to understand what is happening here. Our Lord believed in the devil, and He told us to shun the devil and all his works. What have I, and my fellow liberal clerics done? We have embraced the devil and all his works by our support of the colored heathens against the Christ-bearing race.

DM: That is a strong condemnation of everything I once believed in.

RH: Is it true? That’s all that you need to ask yourself. Is it true that there is a devil and there is a loving God who is the antagonist of the devil?

DM: But it goes against everything modern, everything…

RH: Everything scientific and reasonable?

DM: Yes.

RH: Is what happened in Banyon reasonable and scientific? It is demonic. Science and reason are man-made abstractions. Reality is of the spirit. There is a devil and there is a God, our Lord Jesus Christ. That is the reality we must come to terms with.

DM: I’ve never really considered Christ as an actual reality. He was always, in the church I was brought up in, a kind of social worker, a man ahead of his time who paved the way for civil rights.

RH: That is what I was brought up to believe as well, although in my time there were still a few clergymen who actually believed that Christ was the Son of the living God. Actually, there was only one that I can think of. He was later barred from preaching and removed from his parish for preaching racism. His name was…

DM: It was Christopher Grey, wasn’t it?

RH: Yes, it was. I take it you’ve heard of him.

DM: Yes, all liberals, and I was certainly a liberal, knew of Christopher Grey. He was racist and he was…

RH: Christian?

DM: Yes, and we all hated him with a passion.

RH: So did I. I once met him when he came to Banyon – this was after he was barred from the Anglican Church. He came here to visit a friend who had fled Kenya when Kenya become an independent black state. His friend kept telling us what would happen if we copied Kenya, but of course we didn’t listen to him. Grey gave some public lectures supporting his friend’s views of African affairs. I attended one of those lectures and confronted him afterwards.

“By what right do you come here and preach hate?” was my first question to him when he stepped away from the podium.

Christopher Grey replied, “I preach the hatred of the devil and all his works, if that is what you mean by hate. But there is a difference between your hate and my hate. Your hate is grounded in the hatred of the living God, who, since you can’t strike back at him directly, you attack by attempting to destroy the Christ-bearing race. I hate the devil, because I love Christ and His people. Surely you can see the difference?”

Of course I couldn’t see the difference at all. I was too filled with hatred for that man and what he stood for to see any truth in anything he said.

DM: Was that the last time you saw him?

RH: No, it wasn’t. That was three years ago. I saw him just six months ago on the eve of the anti-apartheid election. He saved my life.

DM: Was he living in Banyon?

RH: No, he came, once again, at the request of his friend, to help his friend and his family escape from Banyon. He got his friend and his friend’s family out of Banyon and then came for me. I was locked up in the white compound, scheduled to be executed the next morning. That night he came to the prison, strangled the two guards and set me and forty other white captives free. The others he took back to Britain with him, but I decided to remain here.

DM: Why?

RH: To try to atone for my sins against Christ and His people. Gradually, over the last six months, I managed to give aid and comfort to a large number of the despised and rejected whites of Banyon. I should have been attending to their needs during the twenty years that I was a cleric here, but I was too busy doing the devil’s work, attending to the needs of Satan’s black minions.

DM: They certainly were my gods and I suppose they were and still are the gods of the white European people.

RH: Yes, they are. I don’t know the outcome of all this. All we can do is try to serve the living God in and through our people. Which is the way of the cross, the way of all our people until the advent of reason, science, and negro worship destroyed the European peoples’ belief in the living God and in themselves as the Christ-bearing race. Every white man and every white woman must ask themselves where they belong, if not with their own people. Where will they learn to love if it is not by their own racial hearth fire? I, who preached love for all mankind, hated my own people. I was a pariah, fit for nothing but treachery against my own people. Neither you nor Jennifer need to beat yourselves to death over your own guilt; it was my responsibility, the responsibility of my entire generation, to preach the love of Christ through the love of one’s own, one’s kith and kin.

DM: Still, there is this matter of a white man’s honor. I’ve only had a week to ponder my mistakes, or should I say sins. But all those romances of Walter Scott, which will be banned in the future no doubt, which I dismissed as part of my unenlightened past, have come rushing to the forefront of my memory. A Walter Scott hero would not allow his intended to be raped without avenging that outrage. I am going to kill Saventi. I know his death will not restore white Banyon, some other black thug will take Saventi’s place, but I must kill him. It is part of the code, a code I’ve disgraced by prancing around the world singing folk songs about the noble black savage. That code, dormant for most of my life, has taken hold of me. I’m new to this Christian European thing, Reverend. Am I wrong?

RH: In wanting to kill Saventi?

DM: Yes.

RH: No, I don’t think it would be wrong to kill Saventi. It would be a great good, but there are prudential concerns. You don’t want to just throw your life away in a futile attempt. And what about Jennifer? She needs you.

DM: I don’t think Jennifer would want me to kill Saventi to avenge her honor, but I do think she wants me to fight for the white people of Banyon. And the one, Jennifer’s honor, is connected to the honor of every white in Banyon, the murdered, raped, and tortured whites of Banyon. And I am the only white man that might be able to get near Saventi. I don’t think he knows precisely what happened to me. The black midget and his cousin certainly won’t be talking; they acted without his orders. So I think if I suddenly show up with some plausible story about where I was, Saventi might be fooled and give me another audience. Then I’ll kill him.

RH: Speak to Jennifer before you go, that is all I ask. Then go with my blessing.

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Act V, Scene 1. Two Weeks Later.

[David Morgan (the Ancient Mariner) is walking with Jennifer in the white encampment.]

Jennifer: This is the first time I’ve walked outside of the cave.

DM: How does it feel?

Jennifer: Wonderful, but I don’t think I can manage much of a walk.

DM: That’s all right. We’ll go back whenever you say. I’m just glad to see you up. Rev. Hill says you’ve made outstanding progress.

Jennifer: I guess Heidi’s grandfather was right?

DM: What do you mean?

Jennifer: In that story – I read it when I was a little girl – goat milk and faith is what helps Heidi’s friend Klara to walk.

DM: Is it possible for either of us to have faith, the kind of faith that Rev. Hill has?

Jennifer: Rev. Hill’s faith is of recent vintage, too. Yes, I think it is possible. I’m only an infant, as regards my faith, but I can feel it inside of me, it is real.

DM: I’ve only mentioned it once, but now that you’re on the mend I must…

Jennifer: You must kill Saventi, is that what you want to tell me?

DM: Yes.

Jennifer: I love you, David, and I’m afraid for you, but I won’t ask you not to go. I used to consider myself a feminist. In fact I was such a feminist that I felt guilty when I began to fall in love with you. Real feminists do not love men. But my faith has changed that. I see that there are things a man, a man of honor, must do or else he is not a man. A woman must respect that.

DM: Will you marry me before I go?

Jennifer: Yes.

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Act V, Scene 2. Morgan Has Obtained a Private Audience with Saventi.

Saventi: We were very worried about you. Where have you been all this time?

DM: In the desert. Strange as it sounds, I was abducted from my room and taken to some place in the deserts of Banyon.

Saventi: How far did your abductors take you?

DM: I don’t know, I was unconscious.

Saventi: Then how did you know you were in the desert?

DM: When I regained consciousness, that’s where I was.

Saventi: Who were your abductors?

DM: I don’t know.

Saventi: Why, because all black men look alike to you?

DM: Aren’t you assuming they were black? How do you know they weren’t white fascists?

Saventi: Were they white?

DM: No, they were black.

Saventi: Then why play games with me?

DM: I’m not playing games with you.

Saventi: Yes, you are, Mr. Folk Singer, the great champion of black Banyon. You lying, white fascist. I know where you were. You were with that whore, Jennifer…

[Morgan moves towards Saventi, but Saventi draws a revolver and points it at his head.]

One more step and I’ll blow your brains out. Guards! [The guards enter.] Take this man away.

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Act V, Scene 3. Saventi’s office.

[Saventi is talking to Kantini, the head of his secret police, the man in charge of hunting down white fascists.]

Kantini: I don’t see why we must treat him differently than the rest of the white prisoners. I’ve refrained, at your orders, from torturing him, and he has been fed like a king, but I still must say I don’t understand.

Saventi: Kantini, you are a good and loyal pit bull, but I’m afraid you do not understand the politics of our particular situation. We control Banyon because the liberal whites love us; they have created a fantasy of the poor but noble black savage who needs their aid and their pity. I know this to be true because I have studied at their universities.

Kantini: I spit on their pity.

Saventi: So do I, and I’ll go further than that — I hate the liberals of the West more than I hate the white reactionaries.

Kantini: I hate all whites.

Saventi: As I do, Kantini. I assure you, we will kill them all. But we must be wise. We must not give our enemies, and we have a few in the West, the opportunity to say we are behaving just like the white fascists who used to rule Banyon. This David Morgan fellow is very famous in the United States and Europe. If we torture and kill him, the West will take note.

Kantini: But surely you aren’t going to let him live?

Saventi: Of course I’m not going to let him live. But it must seem right to the liberal West. They must be shown by a reliable witness that David Morgan has become a white racist.

Kantini: And who will be that reliable witness?

Saventi: Pope Francis.

Kantini: That pig?

Saventi: Yes, that pig will be my reliable witness. His papal visit is next week. He wants to give the black Republic of Banyon his blessing. I intend to make sure that Pope Francis is my witness to the world. He will see that David Morgan is a white racist that I must execute for the good of the state. Never fear, my good and faithful pit bull, David Morgan shall die.

Kantini: Will your Excellency allow me the privilege?

Saventi: Yes.

Kantini: Then he shall die slowly and painfully.

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Act V, Scene 4. Pope Francis’s “Interview” with David Morgan, in His Jail Cell.

Pope Francis: I’ve heard terrible things about you, my son.

DM: What did the great Saventi tell you?

PF: That you joined in a plot, a plot of the white fascists hiding in the jungle, to kill President Saventi.

DM: I did try to kill Saventi, but there was no plot. It was my own idea, no one else was responsible.

PF: But what could possibly have possessed you? You were such a good friend of the black people of Banyon. Was it because of that woman?

DM: What woman?

PF: Jennifer Dawson.

DM: What did he tell you about her?

PF: He told me that you were in love with her, but when you discovered that Saventi had made her his fourth wife you went berserk. You stormed out of the Presidential Palace and eventually ended up with the white fascists, plotting your revenge on President Saventi. My son, we all must suffer disappointments in life, and disappointments in love are some of the worst of them, but we must persevere, we must be true to our ideals despite disappointments. President Saventi is a saint. He forgives you for your attempt on his life, and he will permit you to leave the country on the condition that you renounce all attempts on his life and never write or speak a word against President Saventi or the Free Black Republic of Banyon. I think those are more than generous terms. If you accept them, I am to be your safe convoy back to Europe and from there, you can return to your homeland.

DM: I can’t accept those terms, because they are a lie. Saventi is a monster. He raped Jennifer Dawson and then turned her over to his black henchmen to be raped and tortured in a white prison camp. I saw one of those prison camps, your Holiness, and they were something from hell. I won’t renounce Jennifer or my people. I intend, if I live, to tell the world what I saw here and to kill Saventi.

PF: President Saventi told me you would fabricate lies to justify your hatred of him. Please relent, it’s not too late to stop your execution.

DM: It’s not too late for you to become a white Christian. Why won’t you believe me?

PF: Because I believe Saventi. I looked into his face and I saw holiness.

DM: I have nothing more to say to you then.

PF: I’m still willing to be your safe convoy if you’ll only repent. Otherwise you will be executed. I can’t blame Saventi, he can’t permit such plots against the state.

DM: I thought you were against capital punishment.

PF: Not in this case, this is a legitimate execution. White racism must be purged from the face of the earth.

DM: You go to hell.

[Later that night, Morgan is asleep in his cell when he is awakened by a strong hand on his shoulder. When he looks up he sees a very large white man. He also sees that his cell door has been torn from its hinges.]

Christopher Grey: It’s time to leave this place. Your people are waiting for you in the jungle.

DM: Who are you?

CG: My name is Christopher Grey, and we must move quickly.

DM: I can’t leave until I kill Saventi.

CG: He is dead and so is Kantini.

DM: How?

CG: Never mind how. Come with me.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Act V, Scene 5.

[The Ancient Mariner, David Morgan, concludes his story as told to John Taylor.]

Ancient Mariner: That was some 40 years ago, I suppose Christopher Grey was in his early sixties back then. He is still alive today. He is over one-hundred years old.

Taylor: I’ve heard some terrible things about him.

AM: Of course you have, you’ve heard those things from liberals.

Taylor: Who is he then?

AM: He is flesh and blood; that is certain. But he is a kind of Melchizedek, the mysterious high king of Salem, who came seemingly out of nowhere to aid Abraham. Now mind you, I’m not saying Christopher Grey is Melchizedek, but I am saying he has done what Melchizedek did. On many, many occasions he has come to the aid of Christians who seemed destined to perish at the hands of colored barbarians or liberals. I can’t recount all the missions of mercy he has successfully carried off. My case was just one of his many miraculous missions of mercy. When he took me out of that cell, we traveled through the Banyon desert for many miles. As we approached the jungle where Jennifer and the rest of the white Banyonites were, I looked up at the sky and couldn’t help but feel that I was back with the shepherds who were vouchsafed a vision of the Star of Bethlehem. I knew nothing about stars, so I didn’t know what the modern name for the star was that shone so brightly that night. But for me it was the Star of Bethlehem. Its light gave my new-found faith a special intensity and fervor. Christopher Grey didn’t try to discourage me when I got on my knees before the star. He got down on his knees with me and recited Scripture:

And there were in the same country shepherds abiding in the field, keeping watch over their flock by night.

And, lo, the angel of the Lord came upon them, and the glory of the Lord shone round about them: and they were sore afraid.

And the angel said unto them, Fear not: for, behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people.

For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Saviour, which is Christ the Lord.

And this shall be a sign unto you; Ye shall find the babe wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a manger.

And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host praising God, and saying,

Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men.

And it came to pass, as the angels were gone away from them into heaven, the shepherds said one to another, Let us now go even unto Bethlehem, and see this thing which is come to pass, which the Lord hath made known unto us.

Taylor: Once you got back to Rev. Hill and the other whites, did you take up residence there?

DM: No, we didn’t. Jennifer wanted to stay with the white remnant of Banyon, to try and be of some use. You see, she wanted to make up for her treason. But Rev. Hill thought that she could get better medical care in the States. At that time the States still gave medical care to whites.

Taylor: I’ve heard of those times.

DM: The USA eventually went the way of Banyon and outlawed whiteness, but for about 12 years Jennifer was able to receive medical treatment in the United States. We were told by all the doctors that Jennifer, because of all the injuries she had endured at the hands of the black barbarians, could not bear children. But ten years after our return to the States she gave birth to a baby boy. He is alive and well today with a family of his own.

Taylor: Does he live here with your wife and you?

AM: He lives near me. He has lived in the White Underground since he was five years old.

Taylor: And your wife?

AM: We had 38 good years together. She died two years ago. We both tried, during that time, to support the whites in Banyon and the United States. I continued my song writing, but of course my pro-white folk songs were banned. Still, we did what we could. I think I would have given up if it hadn’t been for Jennifer. She looked on me as a rock, so I had to be one.

Taylor: And now?

AM: The dead are not dead; she still needs me to be a rock, and I need her to be my inspiration. Of course, we are both sustained by Him and through Him.

Taylor: What became of Christopher Grey?

AM: He returned to Britain in order to be a thorn in the side of the Moslems and the liberals, but he has visited these shores on other mercy missions. He has friends throughout Europe, the United States, and Banyon.

Taylor: This all seems so fantastical. Your world is so different from the world I have known.

AM: It rests with you to decide which world you belong to. I have told you of your people and their God.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Act V, Scene 6. Two Weeks Later.

[John Taylor is in the rectory with Father Todd.]

Father Todd: Do you feel well enough to assist at mass this afternoon?

Taylor: No, I don’t, can we wait a little while longer?

Father Todd: You’ll forgive me if I seem unsympathetic, but you don’t seem disabled. Why can’t you assist at mass? It’s been two weeks since your alleged beating at the hands of Paul Davis.

Taylor: What do you mean by my ‘alleged’ beating?

Father Todd: I don’t think you were really beaten at all. I think you played Sidney Carton to his Charles Darnay.

Taylor: I don’t know what you are talking about…

Father Todd: Sidney Carton, in Dickens’ A Tale of Two Cities, changed places with Charles Darnay and went to the guillotine in Jacobin France instead of Darnay.

Taylor: I’ve never read Dickens; his books are on the Index. What were you doing reading a condemned book?

Father Todd: Don’t try to put the blame on me. Dickens’ works were not on the Index when I was a young man.

Taylor: You mean in those terrible days when everything white and Christian was not proscribed by our wonderful government?

Father Todd: There it is.

Taylor: What?

Father Todd: Outright blasphemy. I haven’t forgotten why you went on vacation. You had doubts about your vocation as a priest consecrated to the sacred negro.

Taylor: Okay, Father, I will tell you the truth. I no longer believe in the sacred negro. I believe in the God of my people. I believe in the Lord Jesus Christ. I believe that He died to save me from sin and death, and I love Him in and through the people of my own race. I freed Paul Davis because I was in a position to free Paul Davis. I had him change clothes with me, and then he tied me up and left the prison pretending to be me. The authorities believed that he had beaten me and changed places with me. Now, you know the truth. But I must tell you that I only wish that I could free all the white captives of this hideous monstrosity of a church that you serve, and I, God have mercy on me, used to serve.

Father Todd: (screaming). You filthy, degenerate, treacherous snake! I’ll tell them everything and you’ll die slowly, painfully, and justly.

Taylor: All in the name of liberty, equality, fraternity, and the sacred negro, isn’t that about the size of it?

Father Todd: I won’t listen to this blasphemy any longer.

[Father Todd reaches for the cell phone on the table.]

Taylor: I’m afraid I anticipated you, Father Todd. Your cellphone is permanently out of order.

Father Todd: That won’t stop me. I’ll drive to the government offices to report you.

[The Ancient Mariner, aka David Morgan, enters the room with four male companions.]

DM: I’m afraid you will not be able to visit with the government officials, Father Todd.

FT: Who are you?

DM: We are members of the European resistance movement, the people you call white fascists. You are going to be tried for your crimes against your people. You had better pray to the God that you have forsaken that we are more merciful than the god and the people that you serve.

[Exit Father Todd with two of the white males.]

Taylor: What will happen to him?

DM: He won’t be tortured, I’ll promise you that much.

Taylor: Will he be executed?

DM: It’s possible, if he seems irredeemable. But first he’ll be imprisoned. He’ll be fed well and treated humanely. Then comes the big ‘if’ – If we see that he truly and sincerely has left the Church of the sacred negro in order to return to Christ’s church, we will find a place for him in the White Underground. But that will be up to him. Right now, he is headed for prison.

Taylor: How is Davis doing?

DM: He’s doing fine. He never thought he would see his wife and children again. Now it looks like he’ll be around to see them grow up white and Christian.

Taylor: That’s good.

DM: He is very grateful to you. His wife says they will name their next child after you. John, if he is a boy and Joan if she is a girl.

Taylor: That is very kind of them, but it was you…

DM: Nonsense. You were a hero, a real life Sidney Carton.

Taylor: I’ll have to read that book someday.

DM: You’ll get a chance to read all of Dickens’ works where you are going. Arthur’s Britain does not ban Christian works.

Taylor: Are you sure that I belong in Britain?

DM: Yes, I’ll miss you, but right now the government officials are too focused on you. You need time to live and grow as a Christian. Arthur’s Britain is the place for you. If you leave tonight, William and James will put you on the ship with some other future Britons; you will arrive in time for Christmas.

Taylor: All right, it’s settled. But I won’t say goodbye – we shall meet again.

DM: Most certainly. [They embrace.]

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

POSTSCRIPT: Three weeks later, Christmas Eve Day.

[Taylor is with Christopher Grey in his cottage at Tintagel.]

Taylor: Is it true that on the first two Christmas Eves here, you performed the entire Christmas Carol from memory?

Grey: Yes, like my hero, Sir Walter Scott, I have a photographic memory. The works I want to remember stay with me. But last year, our third Christmas in the new-old Britain, I decided to dole out the parts. I was the Ghost of Christmas Past and the narrative voice. This year, our fourth Christmas, I’ll just be the narrative voice.

Taylor: I’m a little nervous about my part. I only read the Christmas Carol for the first time on the boat coming over here.

Grey: You’ll be fine.

Taylor: Is this typecasting?

Grey: (laughing). No, you are playing Scrooge as a young man because you are younger. After all, you are a repentant Scrooge – if you played him that would be typecasting.

Taylor: (laughing). Well, I only hope I don’t ruin it.

Grey: You won’t.

Taylor: I certainly can identify with Scrooge after his conversion. He is so happy that he is a light as a feather. Do I have a right to such happiness?

Grey: Don’t put the grace of God in that category. None of us have any rights – we have His love and that is everything.

Taylor: Whomever I talk to here, they seem to be of one accord – “Christopher Grey is a man who walks with God.” How does a man like myself learn to walk with God?

Grey: Just love Him in and through your people.

Taylor: That’s all?

Grey: That is everything.

Taylor: Rev. Grey, I don’t mean to burden you, particularly on Christmas Eve day, but I would like to know more of your story. You understand that I do not ask for your story in a spirit of mere intellectual curiosity?

Grey: Yes, I understand that. There is something from my past that might help you. It’s not my whole story, but it certainly has determined what the content of my life’s story has become.

Neither of my parents were Church of England, they were what was called ‘non-conformist,’ in that they attended a Protestant Gospel-based church, but they were not narrow sectarians. If you believed that Christ was the Son of God who died for our sins, my parents looked on you as their fellow Christian. Both my parents were large in stature, my mother was very tall for a woman, and my father was a raw-boned, muscular man well over 6’6” tall. I only bring that into the story because, as you’ll see, it is going to have something to do with my path in life. It’s a wondrous thing, how seemingly irrelevant things can shape our destinies.

With such parents, and with the fruits of the earth to nourish me, I grew up to be quite a strong, muscular young man. I don’t think my spirit was as strong as my body was though. I accepted my parents’ faith, but I didn’t pay as much attention to my spiritual life as I did to my physical life. I lifted weights, which I forged at the farm in our blacksmith shop, and the weightlifting added to my natural strength inherited from my parents. Don’t worry, this is all leading somewhere.

Taylor: (laughing). I’m not going to sleep, I assure you.

Grey: Okay. I never had any desire, in my young manhood, to do anything but farming as my life’s work. I pictured myself marrying some pretty farm girl and settling down on a farm near my parents’ farm. And while I was preparing for that life I indulged my two passions – wrestling and weightlifting.

It was the wrestling that changed my destiny. In order to be successful as a wrestler – and I was quite successful as a country wrestler – you needed more than strength, you also needed endurance.  So almost every night, after my farm chores were done, I did three to five miles of roadwork. I didn’t do my running in the morning because I started the farm work so early that I really wasn’t able to fit the running in then. I knew all the roads in the area and there were virtually no cars in those days, the country folk were still using horse coaches and carts, so there was very little danger of running into a vehicle in the dark. Looking back on it now, I realize I was in more danger than I thought. The British people in those days were allowed to bear arms. I never considered the fact that with my size and in the dark, a farmer could easily have mistaken me for a large animal of some kind and blasted me with his shotgun. But I ran in the darkness, completely oblivious to any danger. That is not a deliberate metaphor for my spiritual state at the time, but you can take it for one.

Now I come to the night when God called on me by name. I suppose I’m open to the usual charges of seeing divine intervention in an accidental circumstance, but it is my conviction that what happened on that night, so many years ago, when I was 20, was no accidental circumstance.

I was about two miles into my run when a horse-driven carriage, going extremely fast, too fast for safety, passed me on the road. In fact I had to dive into a ditch to avoid being hit by the carriage. As I got up I noticed that whoever was driving the carriage had stopped about 100 yards up the road. A young woman got out and ran back toward me. She was visibly upset, almost in a state of hysteria. At this point, let me shift to the dramatic mode, which is the way I see the events of that night.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Young Woman: Are you hurt?

Young Grey: No ma’am, I’m not hurt, but I must tell you that you were going too fast for these roads and…

Young Woman: Yes, I know, but I have to prevent something terrible from happening. Now, if you’re not hurt, I must be going.

Young Grey: Wait, if you must get somewhere in a hurry, I can take you there. I know these roads.

Young Woman: (looking me straight in the eye) Will you take me where I want to go without asking questions?

Young Grey: (looking her in the eyes) Yes.

Young Woman: Then let’s go.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Taylor: You really went with her without asking questions?

Grey: You must understand that I was young and a romantic at heart. I know such things are not even spoken of today, especially in the world you’ve come from. But for me it was the fulfillment of the deepest yearning of my heart – to do battle against the forces of evil, and I believed anyone opposed to that fair lady had to be evil, for the sake of a damsel in distress, was all that a romantic could ask for.

Taylor: Was it all you had hoped for?

Grey: Yes. We went about two miles farther down the road and then she asked me to stop. She had reason to believe that her younger sister, blinded by a fatal infatuation, had run off with an older man. My lady knew, by instinct, that the man was evil. And by evil she meant diabolical.

“We might encounter anything in that grove where she was told to meet him. Are you willing to face anything for a woman you don’t even know?” she asked me.

I told her I was. Then we proceeded to the grove in the woods. What I saw sent chills down my spine. The sister was bound and gagged, stretched out on some kind of altar. There were present one white man, dressed in Satanic robes, and he was assisted by four loin-cloth attired black men. The white Satanist was going through a satanic ritual with the obvious intent of sacrificing my lady’s sister to the devil. My blood was up with that charity of honor and I rushed upon the demonic white man. But before I could reach him I had to deal with his black henchmen. That didn’t take long. Once I had disposed of them, I turned to deal with the diabolist. First, he pointed the sacrificial knife at me, but then, surveying my size and the look in my eye, he pulled a revolver from out of his robes and pointed it at my heart, saying, “One step further, and you die. I command you to go back, in the name of Satan, I command you!”

“In the name of Christ, I defy you.”

Taylor: I presume he missed?

Grey: He fired at point-blank range and missed.

Taylor: What happened to him?

Grey: I killed him.

Taylor: And his henchmen?

Grey: I thought I made that clear, I killed them when they tried to stop me from preventing the sacrifice.

Taylor: That must have been rather traumatic, to kill five men like that at such a young age?

Grey: I wouldn’t use the term ‘traumatic’ – I don’t like the terminology of psychology.

Taylor: I’m sorry, it will take some time to divest myself of the trappings of my old life.

Grey: I’m not reproaching you. I just want to keep things clear. The incident stirred up something deep inside of me, but it was not bloodlust, nor was it remorse for what I had done. What it stirred up in me was something that Edmund Burke said was missing in the French people during the bloody French Revolution. He called it, “that charity of honor.” It is the white Christian’s response to the murder of other white Christians and to the destruction of God’s image in man. That is what stirred within me that night, and that is what I, and every white man who is still Christian, lives by. There was an instinct inside of me, deeper than reason, telling me that I had to kill in defense of innocence. The Christian heart will see us through where reason fails.

Taylor: Why did he miss?

Grey: I can’t prove this, but I think the words ‘Jesus Christ’ made him flinch just enough to shoot wide. There is great power in the Word made flesh, and His word was made flesh in my heart on that night.

Taylor: There are similarities between your story and David Morgan’s story.

Grey: Every white Christian is called to fight the devil and his works. It might not always be a physical fight, although in our current post-Christian era, it is often likely to be, but the spiritual battle is always with us. What I encountered on that night was unusual in that the white diabolist, a professor, actually believed in Satan. Most liberals then and now do Satan’s will, but they do not actually believe in Satan. But what that liberal was doing, sacrificing a white Christian on the altars of Satan, with the aid of colored heathens, was to become the liberals’ religion in the 20^th and the 21^st centuries. I have lived a long life, I’ve seen the liberals destroy all of Christian Europe, and now, thank God, I’ve lived to see the beginnings of the European people’s return to Christian Europe. You shall be part of that movement – the great homecoming of the European people.

Taylor: What happened to the two women?

Grey: The fair damsel became my wife, and her sister lived many happy years with a Christian husband. They had a large family. My wife died young, but she has never left my side. It won’t be long now till I see her again face to face.

Taylor: Is that incident what made you become a clergyman?

Grey: Yes, I never wanted, before that evening, to be anything but a farmer.

Taylor: Any regrets?

Grey: No, even though I was finally dismissed from my parish for ‘racism’ I got to meet many Christians and do some good in my work as a clergyman.

Taylor: Is there a true church?

Grey: Yes, but it is not the Anglican Church or the Roman Catholic Church or any of the other organized churches. Christ cannot be put in a closed box. He is not, as my friend C. S. Lewis said in his Narnia series, a tame lion. Christ’s church consists of those who believe in the Lord Jesus Christ as true God and true man. And when I refer to belief, I’m not referring to an intellectual assertion of the truths of Christianity. I’m talking about an interior conviction that Christ is our Savior.

Taylor: How does one come to that faith?

Grey: Through your people. Stay by your racial hearth fire, stay with Christ, and all will be well. Now that I’ve told you a little bit about my beginnings, let us come to the present. Don’t worry about your part in the play, you’ll be fine. I’m sure your performance will be worthy of Dickens. He and all of Europe’s honored dead will be with us today. Did you ever read what Dickens said about Christmas and our honored dead?

Taylor: No, I haven’t. I’m afraid I have a lot to catch up on.

Grey: This is what he wrote: [Grey recites from memory]

On this day we shut out Nothing!

“Pause,” says a low voice. “Nothing? Think!”

“On Christmas Day, we will shut out from our fireside, Nothing.”

“Not the shadow of a vast City where the withered leaves are lying deep?” the voice replies. “Not the shadow that darkens the whole globe? Not the shadow of the City of the Dead?”

Not even that. Of all days in the year, we will turn our faces towards that City upon Christmas Day, and from its silent hosts bring those we loved, among us. City of the Dead, in the blessed name wherein we are gathered together at this time, and in the Presence that is here among us according to the promise, we will receive, and not dismiss, thy people who are dear to us!

Taylor: That is beautiful.

Grey: Yes, it is. After tonight’s service and play, we’ll have all sorts of games and parties on Christmas Day. It’s for the children. We have a lot of children in Christian Britain. You are welcome to come to any of the festivities that strike your fancy.

Taylor: Thank you, from the bottom of my heart.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Finis. Christmas Eve in Christian Britain.

[The play ends with Grey as the narrative voice]:

Scrooge was better than his word. He did it all, and infinitely more; and to Tiny Tim, who did NOT die, he was a second father. He became as good a friend, as good a master, and as good a man as the good old city knew, or any other good old city, town, or borough, in the good old world. Some people laughed to see the alteration in him, but he let them laugh, and little heeded them; for he was wise enough to know that nothing ever happened on this globe, for good, at which some people did not have their fill of laughter in the outset, and knowing that such as these would be blind anyway, he thought it quite as well that they should wrinkle up their eyes in grins, as have the malady in less attractive forms. His own heart laughed: and that was quite enough for him.

He had no further intercourse with Spirits, but lived upon the Total Abstinence Principle, ever afterwards; and it was always said of him, that he knew how to keep Christmas well, if any man alive possessed the knowledge. May that be truly said of us, and all of us! And so, as Tiny Tim observed, God Bless Us, Every One!

Grey: And now, please sing with me: [All the white Britons join in song]

All:

Abide with me; fast falls the eventide;
The darkness deepens; Lord, with me abide!
When other helpers fail and comforts flee,
Help of the helpless, oh, abide with me.

Swift to its close ebbs out life’s little day;
Earth’s joys grow dim, its glories pass away;
Change and decay in all around I see—
O Thou who changest not, abide with me.

I need Thy presence every passing hour;
What but Thy grace can foil the tempter’s power?
Who, like Thyself, my guide and stay can be?
Through cloud and sunshine, Lord, abide with me.

I fear no foe, with Thee at hand to bless;
Ills have no weight, and tears no bitterness;
Where is death’s sting? Where, grave, thy victory?
I triumph still, if Thou abide with me.

Hold Thou Thy cross before my closing eyes;
Shine through the gloom and point me to the skies;
Heav’n’s morning breaks, and earth’s vain shadows flee;
In life, in death, O Lord, abide with me.

Grey: Merry Christmas! +