Listening to this song by a group of singers from the west coast of Colombia, it occurred to me, the reason for the coming hell. Tonight was the first time I've ever heard this song, so it has that glow that songs only ever have the first time you discover them. You can enjoy the song for the rest of your life, but it will never sound like it did the first time you heard it. The sense of wonder, of having discovered El Dorado in a garbage dump, a city of gold in a jungle of giant scorpions and rot, is a wonderful sensation. I'm warning you, it's beautiful:
The song has the strange kind of beauty that only comes from overwhelming pain. It sounds like it was recorded at a school funeral in a favela at twilight. Or is it just a bunch of melodious mourners singing by candlelight in a stone sarcophagus? Hard to tell, but the pain is there, regardless. Overwhelming, and beautiful. Not to say that overwhelming pain is beautiful. It is not. But if a beautiful song, for example, happens to be the result of some kind of painful, heartbreaking experience, the beauty is of a type that is nonexistent in beautiful things that are merely aesthetically pleasing for whatever reason.
This stanza, for example, has a different kind of beauty than a Tiffany egg, or a decorative lamp. Unlike an object mired in diamonds and aesthetics, this beauty hurts:
And they say that on quiet nights
You hear a song of pain
While the soul of her repentant
White dove sings to God
Ah yes, the "song of pain, while the soul of her repentant white dove sings to God," indeed. The kind of beauty that is climbing down the steps toward hell, perhaps, even standing at the gate, but not quite engulfed in it. Not yet. There is a hesitation there. A willingness to turn. A desire for innocence, for forgiveness, for freedom from the chains, for beauty. A cry of repentance. Of sorrow and regret. The white dove sings to God, crying, weeping, please have mercy! Save me from this hell!
And it hit me, the reason for the coming hell.
Not the hell of Communism, or The Mediocre Reset, or the debasement of humanity and perverse conditioning of innocent children that has become mainstream news on a daily basis, all of which are a mere preview of the hell to come. Not the hell of World War III, of famine, or of genocide. But rather, much worse than that, the hell of the book of Revelation. Plagues of murder, of flying scorpions, of oceans turning into blood. Billions of people dying in a single hour, swallowed by the earth. Plagues of unbearable heat, in which mankind still finds it within himself to murder the white dove and curse the Heavens that won't just "leave him alone" to be a philandering money-worshiper in peace, as though he won't have enough time away from God when he gets to hell.
And it hit me, why God must allow it to get that bad.
It doesn't make sense on the surface, but the reason for the coming hell is simple: There is still beauty in the world. There is still a reason for God to relent from wiping the entire works off the map in a one-take scene from a disaster movie tomorrow. There is still hope. It's running out, but it's there. It's being devalued, desecrated, abolished, and destroyed, but still it persists.
And it always will, though the price of maintaining it, of repenting, will become higher as the world continues its passive, self-absorbed ride on the conveyor belt to hell.
There will come a time when thoughts of art, music, and beauty will fill the hearts of those who remember them with incredulous, joyless laughter.
"Music, ha!" Says the repentant sinner of the future, the Miles Davis of the Tribulation, seconds before he gets his head chopped off and is sent to the great hereafter, where all the best music is anyway. He will never have been allowed to progress as an artist to the point of being able to make the Sketches of Spain of the 21st Century, but unlike 20th-Century Miles Davis, he won't be tempted with believing in himself to the point of never needing to repent. And he will live with Christ forever, in peace and innocence with millions of grateful people in a place without sin, and the music will be neverending and wonderful, better than anything the 20th-Century Miles Davis ever dreamed of. Whether Sketches of Spain by 20th-Century Miles Davis is full of dark, painful beauty or not (it is).
God loves us too much to take the world out before He allows (allows) the devil to take control in the form of the world's final dictator, the Antichrist. Without the Antichrist, the world will always produce works of art in which beauty is trapped like a fly writhing to free himself from the spiderweb of pain. That beauty is an echo of God, of hope, of the Holy Spirit, of the conscience within us, the desire for innocence and freedom that has long-since been forgotten by most of us, relegated to the world of children and rubes, as though God didn't care about us, and it's too risky to believe He does, because if He doesn't come through, I won't be able to take it, not again, and surely I will not only die, but implode and burn within myself for all eternity.
In order for God to be "justified" in starting the whole thing over with the Millennial reign as described in Revelation, He has to make sure that everybody knows just who the devil is, exactly. There can be no doubt. There can be no more hope in anything outside of God. There can be no beauty. This is not now, and will never be, God's doing. It is simply a revealing of the true nature of the bastard prince of the powers of the air, the artless con artist many people still think is "cool," and who has "all the best tunes," which is like crediting a drunken hijacker with world-class flying skills because he points a gun at the pilot's head and pays him to land in a burning field instead of the original, idyllic destination, but that's another point for another time. But Satan will be allowed to take control of the world precisely so God can say He gave humanity absolutely every chance to repent, because He knows we won't be able to handle the world the devil wants to create. And which the devil clearly is creating, in case it isn't obvious.
Repent now, because there's going to be a lot of collateral damage. Deaths in the billions. "Good people" and scumbags alike will discover the true value of their own self-righteous virtue (or self-unrighteous lack thereof), which they believe they possess of their own free will, because they aren't Adolf Hitler or Jeffrey Dahmer, which, really, isn't the highest standard for measuring one's morality, is it. Assuming God is going to let you into Heaven because you're not Adolf Hitler is like assuming you're going to be hired by the London Symphony Orchestra because you're not G.G. Allin. Not being a shit-eating punk-rocker in a G-string is a pretty low standard by which to measure one's capacity to join a professional orchestra.
Yet almost everybody does it, every single day. The burning quicksand of hell is waiting for those who put faith in their own virtuousness, or who paradoxically believe themselves "too good" for virtue, or above it.
"The traps are set for the innocent," the singer says in the song above. Another painfully-beautiful song. It's like the sound of heaven and hell coming together while they still can, a sound made by people torn between innocence and guilt, forgiveness and wrath, until they are surrendered or delivered to one or the other at their death, and The Great Divorce separates them at last. To never meet again.
And below, the lyrics of the song in the first video, in original Spanish and also English, for anyone who's curious.
Thanks for listening.
Plegaria
Plegaria que le va mi alma
Al son de lentas campanadas
Plegaria que es consuelo y calma
Para las almas desamparadas
El órgano en la capilla
Me embarga toda devoción
Mientras que su alma de rodillas
Pide clemencia, pide perdón
¡Ay de mí, ay señor!
Cuanta amargura y dolor
Cuando el sol se va ocultando
Una plegaría que se eleva lentamente
Brota de mi alma, como un alma doliente
Elévame, suena el atardecer
Cuando el sol se va ocultando
Una plegaría que se eleva lentamente
Brota de mi alma, como un alma doliente
Elévame, suena el atardecer
Murió la bella penitente
Murió y su alma arrepentida
Voló muy lejos de esta vida
Si hubo queja tímidamente
Y cuentan que en noches calladas
Se oye un canto de dolor
Mientras que su alma arrepentida
Paloma blanca, cántale a Dios
¡Ay de mí, ay señor!
Cuanta amargura y dolor
Cuando el sol se va ocultando
Una plegaría que se eleva lentamente
Brota de mi alma, como un alma doliente
Elévame, suena el atardecer
Prayer
Prayer that goes my soul
To the sound of slow chimes
Prayer that is comfort and calm
for the helpless souls
The organ in the chapel
I am overwhelmed by all devotion
While your soul on your knees
Begs for mercy, begs for forgiveness
Oh me, oh Lord!
How much bitterness and pain
When the sun goes down
A prayer that rises slowly
It springs from my soul, like a suffering soul
Lift me up, the sunset sounds
When the sun goes down
A prayer that rises slowly
It springs from my soul, like a suffering soul
Lift me up, the sunset sounds
The beautiful penitent died
She died and her soul repented
She flew far away from this life
If she had complained timidly
And they say that on quiet nights
You hear a song of pain
While the soul of her repentant
White dove sings to God
Oh me, oh Lord!
How much bitterness and pain
When the sun goes down
A prayer that rises slowly
It springs from my soul, like a suffering soul
Lift me up, the sunset sounds
