It Dwells Within

 
In my days of cthonic godhood
I was a titan of ice and fire;
An iconic contradiction,
Both paragon and pariah.
 
On a distant spire, a seraph stood
Holding a newborn with nacre eyes.
I came to learn, later, the infant was truth;
Only child of the father of lies.
 
The archangel held the child forth
Crying, “Who makes the sacrifice?
Where dwells the courage that validates reason?
Who pays the asking price?"
 
“Not I!” I averred in stentorian tones.
“I bear burdens of profitable sins!”
“So,” whispered the angel, with a knowing smile,
“Here, nascent redemption begins.”
 
“Not I!” I repeated, more stridently, now.
“I cast my jaded lot with the fates!”
“Be silent!” the winged spirit declared.
“Step forward—the child awaits.”
 
Cthonic gods are never given to dream
Their humanity has survived.
Yet, divesting divinity, I'd barely blinked
Before finding it safely arrived.