Baldur the beautiful is dead
Nothing in all of creation would kill Baldur–
not disease, stone, metal, weapon– anything
but one: Mistletoe. The plant that is a parasite to trees.
Baldur’s brother tricked by Loki to fashion a dart of mistletoe
expecting it to do no harm.
But the dart slew Baldur. All the world wept his death.
Every rock, tree, even the metals in the earth wept. Every animal– every creature, every god. But one: Loki.
Baldur sojourned to the land of the dead, Hell’s kingdom where there was no dawn.
She thought him the most beautiful creature as everything and everyone did.
All the world trembled at his loss in the land of the living.
The gods sought to retrieve him from the kingdom of the dead, but failed.
Only one as wise and adored would break the chains of Hell’s kingdom.
Life itself sacrificed for the Life of the world. Life slain that all may live again. A rune written before the worlds were made, a promise from before the beginning kept and fulfilled. Written in the earth. Written in the cosmos. The death of God to redeem the world and all that was in it. All that wept for him and all that despised him.
The dawn finally came to those in Hell’s kingdom. His flesh was not gray or white or green or blue. But life pulsed within him. That the dead may live again. On that first Easter morn, the dawn pierced the land of the dead– hope rising where it had never been.
Baldur was beloved, but could not rise again even with the gods power.
But the Son of God would rise again and the dead in his train, rising with him, no longer pale ghosts, but made whole.
Baldur the beautiful is dead,
But all will rise again,