by Brandy Williams
I sing of Babalon the warrior.
I sing of Babalon who wields the sword.
Her priestesses cry out against those who have transgressed against them.
“We came to you offering holy joy
and you have placed your eyes and hands on us against our will.
That which was divine turned corrupt in your hands.
You ripped from us what would have sustained us both.
Contemptuous and violent
you saw Our Lady in our faces
and believed She only marked us for your use.
We call on Her to hear us, protect us and heal us.
We call on Her to collect what is her due.”
Babalon rides the lion, she is the lion.
See her face change now to the lion’s face.
As Sekhmet she strides in from the desert, slaying.
Her terrible roar shatters bone and spills blood.
She rages against the unspeakable wrong.
“You who have placed your eyes and hands upon my priestesses
not in holy joy but against their will
committing the blasphemous act of violation
I have come to harvest your life.
Unexpected, unshriven, unwilling,
you will pay the tribute of your blood.”
Babalon rides the lion, She holds the cup,
She wields the sword, She harvests the life,
She gathers the blood, She swallows the soul.
Hail to the Lady of death and of life!
Hail to the flame which consumes that which threatens the balance!
Hail to the Red Lady in her righteous rage!
Even when that which is corrupt is purged Her rage continues.
She sees red and drinks blood and deals death.
Once Her slaughter has begun what can stop Her?
The violence offered to Her priestesses
has driven them from the holy office that saves us.
Without them, without Her, we will all die.
Babalon dances like Kali drunk on the blood of corruption.
What will turn her rage, what will save us?
Only when one comes who is the willing sacrifice,
who lays beneath Her feet so She can trample him
who offers the last drop of his blood to Her cup,
he is holy, he is sacred, he restores the balance.
Only when one comes who is the willing sacrifice,
who lays beneath Her feet so She can trample her,
who offers the last drop of her blood to Her cup,
she is holy, she is sacred, she restores the balance.
Only when one comes who is the willing sacrifice,
who lays beneath Her feet so She can trample them,
who offers the last drop of their blood to Her cup,
they are holy, they are sacred, they restore the balance.
Then Babalon becomes as Hathor, the Red Lady of Love.
Then Babalon becomes as Lalita, the Red Lady of Love.
Then Babalon becomes herself, the Red Lady of Love.
“I shine in the faces of my priestesses.
I shine in the faces of my priests.
I shine in the faces of my deacons.
For I am the holy joy which loosens limbs and softens hearts.
I am the promise of renewal and the source of immortality.
I am the surrender which is the victory of life over death.
Come to me with your love, withholding nothing.
Fall to your knees before My holy presence.
Recognize the awful power of my limitless yielding.
Experience the ecstasy of dissolution.
Spill into eternity in My arms.”
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