The battered structure, lay in unspeakable ruins. It was dark and musty, carrying the most overwhelming stench. It’s beige brickwork differed from the ordinary hues of gray which covered the majority of the sullen city. Great beams and rubble lay this way and that casting a rather strange picture on the structure. So jumbled was the building that the casual passerby, if that were possible in the city, may have mistaken it for nothing but rubble. It was not known to the children what it must once have been, rather it remained quite mysterious to them. So, as they entered the ruined building as the Lady had instructed Miryam, their suspicions bore foremost upon their minds. Perhaps it was once a meeting hall like the ones Slav and her friends gathered in. Or, perhaps, it was an ancient castle for a king of old. Or was it something entirely different?

Miryam entered first bearing the torch and as the flame danced, the inner hold of the building shone before the children. Paul and tiny Christopher, upon his back, both gasped. Aside from the fact that they were now obviously lower than the ground outside, as if an earthquake had once struck the place, the design of the massive structure was incredible. The whole building was quite simply awe inspiring. Paul and the children were overtaken, and simply flabbergasted. Who could have known that this forsaken rubble heap was a grand architectural masterpiece? And, perhaps the greatest surprise, under the mask of the broken exterior, the interior was considerably intact. Reds, and golds, blues, and oranges glinted from every corner. The entire building was one grand painting, an artwork speaking of some forgotten age. The flame caused more to be realized as the children walked through the old halls. The golden hall was not as glorious as it once was. Vandalism was now clearly visible to the children. Great streaks of paint covered once wonderful paintings, pieces of mosaics lined the floor, and statues were defiled in many ways. Dust and the smell of ancient smoke lined the walls. It was almost painful to the children as they walked through the building that such a labor had been so wrecked and dishonored.

Paul was hit by something as he had entered the strange building, an aura, not ominous, contrary to it. The only similar feeling he had ever experienced was when he witnessed Miryam receiving a visit from the Lady. However, they were different, almost indescribably, but still different on so many levels. This was almost triumphant, although sorrowful, the other spoke of peace but warned of pain. Paul was grasped by these thoughts, these feelings were so foreign to him, almost opposite to the daily thoughts and sensations which passed through him. These insights however were interrupted by the crinkle of scorched and old parchment. He knelt over the parchment, careful not to tip over too far, not wanting to let Chris fall.

He turned over that cold parchment, stained, burnt, and tattered. His nimble eyes darted across that ancient manuscript. Those writings seemed to breathe to him, almost sing to him. A piercing, painful, soulful lament penetrated Paul’s being within moments. The same feeling so very contrary to his daily activities, only magnified. The screaming page seemed to be placed at the exact center of the building. It was written in a hurried, almost sloppy hand. It was no mistake, Paul knew this suddenly. The moaning page was a question, a sigh, and a story. It was in that moment that Paul grasped the reality of their mission. Yes, Miryam’s visions were true... They must be!... No coincidence was possible. It affirmed to him, an ancient parchment, that Miry was right...She was right... Against all likelihood, or rather presumed likelihood, Miryam, his little sister had been caught up in some grand spiritual expedition. The humblest being called into the that activity that penetrated all ages, that consumed the minds of greatest thinkers, philosophers, heroes and housewives. The page simply screamed, “Yes...Yes Paul...Yes”.

Miry leaned over his shoulder and read those poetic, hurried words aloud...


Those who sigh and still those who suffer...
Thy pain cannot compare...
To ours so deep
Our temptation to despair...
Our littlest hands
Our humblest tongues
Put to this task so Grand...
Why, to us, hast Thou commended these things
To us who Joy and Cry...

Is it only a mistake
This doubt crosses our mind...
Are we the mistaken
For here we lay shaken
As fire and pain enclose...
Show Us...
Help Us...
Save Us...

We have failed
We have forsaken Your Call and Your Cry!
Wilt Thou Send another
Who will Conquer and Bear up the Loud...
This shout we do say
And the legend still play
Among those who still can smile...
A youth, a child, a babe...
Three as Thou Art...
An icon of sort
Will that be Your weapon of Grace...

And So here we right the wrong
On this cold winters night so strong
As the fire approaches and brews
We will not forsake You
So long as we hold
Bold yet we dare
Our blood shall spill
This is our last will
As tears mingle with pain
As they come upon us
Their blades upon us
Not to die for ourselves
But For You...