When Xerxes Wept

Xerxes Wept How ravaged is this land, a virgin found by men of war. Who sets upon our temple violent bands, burns wisdom's record, scars beauty left by sculptors' hands? This land's conqueror is he, and Xerxes is his name. But Xerxes weeps, a dew-eyed maid. Why should he weep, the conqueror of this land? He weeps for what he knows and sees. His mighty host, his men-at-arms, his hundred myriad blades and shields he sees dissolve like flakes of snow upon wet grass, fresh fallen. A hundred years, their flesh is dust and rust their gleaming glory. A conqueror of conquerors is there, and Chronos is his name. His hands are stronger than all human hands That hold the blade and hurl the dart. His hands none stays save One alone, that One who guides the sculptor's hand inspires the pen, gives prophets words, leads those who will in righteous ways, the conqueror of the conqueror of conquerors, Whose name is one, one only.