MODERN HYMNS AND POETRY FOR SERAPIS

Triad for Serapis
by Phillupus

1. Beginning
I have felt the stirrings of myself
since the first inundation of the Nile.

I have seen the roots of my being
in the rough rutting of a bull in Memphis.

I was coming into existence
while Osiris' parts were scattered.

I was inching out of obscurity
when Hades opened the earth for Kore.

I was present when the Argive Apis
came to Memphis, curing, dying.

My name was whispered in Babylon
to Alexander as "King of the Deep."

Asklepios of the Egyptians--Imouthes--
was my hand as he healed and measured.

I was a savior when I took
the thyrsus from Dionysos' hand.

And in the mud and flood of the Nile
in the dreams of Ptolemy I took shape.

My wife is Isis, from whom was born
Hermanubis and Harpocrates.

The trident, the thunderbolt, the Nemean lion's skin
were given to me as wedding gifts.

The modius crown the grateful present
of the gods of Egypt at my birth.

Sothis descended into the underworld
to lie a moment with Echidna's whelp;

Her pup, fiery Sarpyros, given to me
with snake tail, with lion, wolf, and dog heads.

I will be sung to in Germania's Coloniae,
and from India to Iberian Hispania.

In Memphis and Alexandria,
Thebae, Ostia, Aelia Capitolina,

and at Tibur's pleasant hills
Hadrian's honors will be my glory.

Ammon and Pan, Helios, Aion,
Agathos Daimon and Mithras--
even all of these will come
under the heavy burden of my locks.

Those in white robes with purple stripes
will know, by this beard, my godliness.

2. Eboracum
To the Holy God Serapis
this Temple was Made, solely,
by Claudius Hiernymianus,
Legate of VI Victrix Legion.

In this city of the legions
far north in Britannia
mere bowshots from Caledonia's wastes
I have set down these stones.

The rain and hail have not ceased
their equal trade of day and night watches
for weeks, as Maia's feast draws near.
Sons of Dis, I would cross Styx sooner!

I remember the times in Campagna
when summer sun ripened
the fragrant groves of olive trees
as I lounged eating figs and bread.

I made offerings in your temple, Great God
when I survived the fever that beset
my final ephebic years, and in dreams
you came to me and comforted.

For my life and every good thing
I vowed to repay you one day;
I have been promoted now,
and thus I give you this temple.

May it remind travelers here
of warmer climes far away,
of helpful and hospitable gods
who only hear rumors of hail and snow.

I hear tales from generations passed
that the Iceni had a god
like you, O Great God, holy,
bearded, benevolent, called "The Good."

I have seen your image adorning
the Mithraeum of Londinium,
white-faced, marble, noble, living...
a Serapeum of your own you deserve!

I know not what will happen here,
whether the Emperor Septimius Severus
will be pleased with this temple
when he comes to campaign.

So much of Hadrian's limit
on the other side of the vallum
was laid waste by the Maetae,
temples razed to the ground in fire.

A century from now, my bones
may be dust, my soul choking on dirt,
but, with your grace, O Holy One,
may I be in pleasant fields instead.

A century from now, in this fort,
your temple may be a grain storehouse
for warlike and impious usurpers--
may that never come to pass!

A century from now, some upstart fool
may have designs for the Empire--
may he be stopped in his tracks
by all the gods of Rome!

And long after his images are tossed
into the Tiber's sewers and forgotten,
will roaming spirits, loyal and disloyal
besiege this fort forever unquiet?

I, Claudius Hieronymianus,
by Jupiter and Isis, Mithras and Serapis--
the Great and Holy Good God--
do dedicate this temple to you!

3. Endings
Atheists have come to destroy my temple.

They have pillaged my coffers.

They have killed my philosophers and priests.

They have desecrated the daughter library.

They have hacked my statue to rubble.

How unfortunate for them--their blindness!

They destroy images of the gods
thinking their imageless "God" is the "True God"
when no image is still an image
and their insistence makes its senselessness plain.

But this is a teaching too subtle for most,
and even now an image takes shape
in the minds of thousands begetting millions.

Their father god, just judge on his throne,
benevolent and bearded and all-being:
who is he but myself renamed?

That "God"'s son, prodigious child--
who is he but my own Harpocrates?

Who is this "Mother of God" but Isis?

Their sainted Christopher, bearer, way-opener
is none other than my son Hermanubis.

How unfortunate for them--their blindness!

Their saint Anthony of the desert
was my own since before his birth.

There is no god I have yet encountered
who has not given of himself to me.

Iao Sabaoth, he who speaks in winds
has thrown up his cleansed hands in frustration.

"I have been with you from the start,
even though my people were not.

They are loyal to me, I must remain loyal.
But these 'Christ-followers'?--no,
I will not have such among my people.

Do with them as you wish, they are not mine."

Their prayers will have no power, calling no holy name
but "God"--deified noun without gravity--
but I will go with them at a distance.

For centuries, I will conceal my truth in their lie
until men are prepared again to see it.

By destroying my image, they have freed me,
by sacrilege they have liberated me--
now I am freer in form
than the wind which was their god before.