Colors of His Beauty

He rose up past the walls of ancient, vaulted stone, not with the stride of pride, but the weight of Grace. A hue birthed deep in bruised and kingly bone, with starlight woven through his silken face. The Bearer of the Scepter and the Scar He does not shout to prove his rightful place; He moves in silence, steady, calm, and vast. His shoulders bear the gravity of time and space, the first of colors, and the sacred last. With the eyes of amethyst and flinty spark, He holds the Truth—a blade of steady light— to pierce the hidden terrors of the dark and set the crooked paths of history right. His grip is iron wrapped in a violet fold, a firm assertion that the Law is good. He will not barter righteousness for gold, nor bend the pillars where the martyrs stood. He is the Judgment—sovereign and severe, the royal standard that demands the soul; He casts out every shadow-born of fear to make the fractured spirit clean and whole. Yet, watch him kneel within the dust and grime, this Purple Prince, this high and Holy One. He steps beyond the boundaries of time to finish what in darkness had begun. With hands that could command the lightning’s flare, He reaches out to lift the fallen low; a Mercy deeper than the lungs can bear, a Salvation only wounded hearts can know. "I am the Wine of Life," he seems to sigh, "The royal robe cast o'er the beggar's frame." He gives his crown so those condemned may fly, and writes in violet ink a brand new name. He is the Regal Mercy, firm and sweet, where justice and the kiss of peace have met. The world is laid beneath his purple feet, a debt discharged, a Sun that will not set.


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