John St. John

JOHN ST. JOHN 12.15. magick knife; I smart from the heat of the Holy Oil; I am bruised by the scourge of Osiris that hath so cruelly smitten me; the perfume yet fills the chamber of Art ;—and 1? Oh Adonai my Lord, surely I did invoke Thee with fervour; yet Thou camest not utterly to the tryst. And yet I know that Thou wast there; and it may be that the morning may bring remembrance of Thee which this consciousness does not now contain. But I swear by Thine own glory that I will not be satisfied with this, that I will go on even unto madness and death if it be Thy will—but I will know Thee as Thou art. It is strange how my cries died down; how I found myself quite involuntarily swinging back to the old mantra that I worked all yesterday. However, I shall try a little longer in the Position of the Hanged Man, although sleep is again attacking me. I am weary, yet content, as if some great thing had indeed happened. But if I lost consciousness— a thing no man can be positive about from the nature of things—it must have happened so quietly that I never knew. Certainly I should not have thought that I had gone on for 25 minutes, as I did. But I do indeed ask for a Knowledge and Conversa- tion of the Holy Guardian Angel which is not left so much to be inferred from the good results in my life and work; I want the Perfume and the Vision. . . . Why am I so materially wallowing in grossness.> It matters little; the fact remains that I do wallow. T 33