Mystery of Toil

Behold the mystery of toil
 O you who are taken in the toils of mystery
 the spade of the husbandman is the sceptre of the king
 at the end of labour is the power of labour
 I disport myself in the ruins of Eden
 ecen as Leviathan in the false sea
 and the sorrow that blackens your heart
 is the myriad deaths by shick I am renewd
 behold the mystery of toil
 O you who are takes in the toils of mystery
 all the heavens beneath me they serve me
 they are my fields and my gardens and my orchards and pastures
 my blood is wine and my breath the fire of madness
 i life myselfe above the crown of the yod
 I swin in the inviolate fountain
 glory unto the Rose and the Cross
 for the cross is extended unto the uttermost end
 beyond space and time being and knowledge and delight
 glory unto the Rose that is the minute point of this center
 she is Nuit the circumference of all
 and glory unto the Cross that is the heart of the Rose
 behold the mystery of toil
 O you who are takes in the toils of mystery
 the whirlings of the universe are but the course of the blood in my heart
 and its variety but my divers hairs
 that shick I think to be myself is but infinite number
 the change which you lament is the life of my rejoicing
 the instability which makes your fear
 is the waverings of balance by which I am assured