Zebulon Lee

​The eyes of Zebulon Lee stared blankly 
In the harsh LED light of his apartment, 
His red hair hanging loosely about his bearded face, 
Alone in Virginian Alexandria.
In the blink of an eye, he found he was not. 

Saint John the Baptist: 
These lights will make you go blind, you know. 

Zebulon: 
Stranger, I feel that I have long been wandering 
In a trackless waste. 

St. John: 
You speak truly, 
For your father Constantius risked much to find 
The precious treasure you so glibly stow 
On your countertop. 

[Another visitor appears.] 
 
Herod: 
But why should he concern himself with this, 
This musty flesh?  Look what trouble it has brought 
To his life – His father is dead and the house of Lee 
Is heaped with loathsome shame.  Constantius 
Believed in the power of a dead man’s hand 
To unify his people, but found himself 
Mocked and murdered by secret police. 

St. John: 
What is your advice for the man, then, Herod? 

Zebulon: 
Herod? 

St. John: 
Herod, yes.  What course should he take? 

Herod: 
There is only one sure path to power 
In this world:  Take it by force!  Constantius, 
Like Robert before him, wouldn’t stain his sword 
With his enemies’ blood.  Those they opposed 
Remain as rulers, themselves now in ignominy. 
Avenge them, pitiful young Lee, sitting weakly 
On the floor!  Take up sword and gun, knife and poison, 
Kill those who humiliated your kinsmen, 
And be the strong ruler they refused to be! 

Zebulon [Stands.]: 
You speak with boldness, sir, as one who knows, 
Rather than who shares a speculation. 
But I, too, have read a little history, 
And know what end awaits a governor 
Whose rule is founded on seas of blood.  You slew 
Wife and sons, dozens of the Sanhedrin, 
And fourteen-thousand young innocent babes, 
That you might cling a little more securely 
To your sweet power.  What did it avail? 
You died anyway, and mis’rably, hated by all. 

Herod [Spits at Zebulon.]: 
And who are you – Good King Alfred, reborn? 
Going to lead the Southern people with prayers 
And baubles to victory over the Northmen 
From your little hovel, your own sad Athelney? 

Zebulon: 
Who I am, or shall be, is no concern 
Of yours.  Be gone! 

Herod: 
A curse fall upon you! 

[Disappears.] 

Zebulon  [To St. John]: 
You have been mighty quiet throughout, Stranger. 

St. John: 
Evil has a way of defeating itself, 
At times. 

Zebulon: 
And yet at other times it persists. 
For two hundred years, my people have had to wear 
The Yankee yoke.  My father believed the hand 
Of St. Andrew would safeguard us, but he died, 
And we are again unfree.  Was his faith misplaced? 

St. John: 
No Mr. Lee, not misplaced, simply unfulfilled. 
The Adversary cannot thwart the will of God, 
Only delay it.  Now that you have shown yourself 
Faithful, you must finish what your forefathers began. 
A gathering of many thousands will soon take place 
In the federal city before Lincoln’s temple 
To stir up nationalistic fervor, 
To strengthen the union that was dead 
And yet lives again.  Take with you St. Andrew’s relic, 
Stand before the tyrant, asking God for help, 
And you will see deliverance for your people. 
Only know that fierce persecution awaits you, 
If you go.  But even so, the Gracious Lord 
Will not abandon you. 

Zebulon: 
Nor will I Him. 
But tell me, Friend, ere I go, who you are. 
I think we have met before, haven’t we? 

St. John: 
When you go to give thanks to God after witnessing 
His mighty acts, then you will know who speaks with you. 

[Disappears.] 

Zebulon, momentarily stunned to stillness 
By this and all the day’s events, recollected himself 
Quickly and prepared to go.  Upon his chest 
He strapped the reliquary of St. Andrew’s hand, 
The bands forming the familiar Southern cross. 

He found the words of St. John true:  Beaten 
By demons, stabbed by thieves, abused by soldiers 
As he traveled to Lincoln’s shrine, the Lord Jesus 
Sent an angel to heal him every time. 

Now standing at the front of the crowd, blue eyes 
Sparkling, he held aloft the holy hand, 
And cried aloud, ‘Now, Lord, visit the South 
With Your goodness through the prayers of St. Andrew, 
St. Alfred, and all our holy intercessors!’ 

The words died away amidst many loud voices; 
The words drifted away, but the dark clouds clabbered. 
Terrible winds tore at the Memorial – 
Bolt after bolt of lightning struck and smashed it – 
Hailstones covered the rubble like an icy grave. 

The sheltering crowds, in disbelief, hearkened 
To the voice of Zebulon Lee:  ‘The union 
We have known will be no more.  Go ye home, 
And let your native States and regions be your countries 
From this time onward.’  And this they freely did. 

The Southern States, united under the headship 
Of Zebulon Lee, bearer of the sacred relic, 
Formed pacts of friendship with Christian countries 
Across the world – both smaller folk like Serbia 
And Hungary and great powers, Brazil 
And Russia, who helped them stand upon their feet. 
And it was decreed that no one would hold 
Dixie’s high executive command who was unworthy 
To be the keeper of St. Andrew’s mighty hand. 

On the day appointed for a solemn thanksgiving 
To God for His kindness towards the South, 
All entered the Cathedral of St. John the Baptist 
In the former District of Columbia, 
Since returned to Maryland, now proudly 
And righty bearing the name of Washington City. 
As the procession of Zebulon Lee entered, 
There, on the right side of the icon of the Savior, 
Was the face of the Stranger, the Friend, who had appeared 
To him so many days ago:  the icon 
Of St. John himself!  With overflowing 
Gratitude, without hesitation, he bowed low 
Before him and kissed the image of that holy man, 
Greatest born of woman, true in ev’ry age, 
And led the congregation in a song of praise 
To the great benefactor of the Southern land. 

---

The End, and Glory to God! 

This poem is the conclusion to Constantius Lee, which you can read here.