Her flower blooms: beyond the petals lies the living Wisdom of Her body, the life of the Rose; Her lips stained red by wanton kisses and holy blood. By the flame of Her lust did I know Her as Mystery incarnate, and chased Her to ruin to taste of Her dew, and be drunken.
Unto Her did I bear the Cross as a lamb to a lioness; I did tremble in the light of Her intoxication, 'til She arched Her back like a bow of sinew and notched my arrow into Her string, firing me into the stooping starlight, the bosom of the Queen of Heaven.
Her mons the sacrificial grounds, the exhibition of the shameless harlot. My Cross the altar of the Work, my blood the seed of Life. In the retort we join unto Death and new genesis, pouring Self and Self into the Self-less.
I no longer see a terrifying future in the Revelation of John.