Volume > Issue > The Chain

The Chain


By James Jacob Hege | September 1984

The chain that’s fixed to the throne of Jove,

One link dissolved, the whole creation ends.

 — Edmund Waller


The first day of creation was its last.

“For in my end is my principio.”

So said the Queen of Scotland long ago,

And all the future’s chained inside the past.


The robe of Time’s the body of creation,

Whose soul, now trapped in bondage, is its Space.

The Fiat Lux engaged it in embrace

Despite its lengthy rage of lamentation.


The light of Time annihilates Freedom’s chance:

The freedom of the world and of each soul.

There’s nothing new beneath this big Black Hole

Which isn’t sucked in line to its fixed dance.


Creation ever bears its own disgrace:

This odd duality of Time and Space.

Enjoyed reading this?



You May Also Enjoy

Milton on the Monday After Easter Break

Fifteen ‘til seven now

(That’s by my watch which nowadays

The Prodigal Father and His Child

“Well, Father, my share of the farm has

been turned into gold.

I take it…


A slow befuddled winter fly

With 747 abandon

Has trundled from my window sill