god of the sun
Do you know what it's like to be owned by the sun? It's a curious feeling. When she sinks into the ocean or erupts from the mountain, a desperate piece of your soul slips with her. In the low, low light of early evening, before darkness fully falls and the scavengers come out, her orange-red light bathes and blinds you. Projected through leaves like stained-glass shadows, she lights your skin without warming your body. But on the harshest of summer's midday, she pours molten fire down on your head, boiling your blood and melting your flesh. Only the shade can bring relief, sheltered beneath those lucky trees that thrive rather than shrivel beneath her melting glare. Rocks swell and crack in the pounding light, and every living thing longs for shelter.
But when the sun goes away, we wail and moan for her promised return. At first, it seems like a blessing. After all her constant tyranny, shouldn't we celebrate a long-awaited absence? But as the overcast days stack and pile upon one another, and the shortest days and longest nights come in closer and closer succession, we beg for her return. The stars are only distant imitations, and the moon is but a pale mockery with her unearthly glow. Where is that welcoming glory, the holy hand of Ra? We worship the sun god, the God of the sun. We stare into her unblinking eye, and know that it is good.
god of the sun
Do you know what it's like to be owned by the sun? It's a curious feeling. When she sinks into the ocean or erupts from the mountain, a desperate piece of your soul slips with her. In the low, low light of early evening, before darkness fully falls and the scavengers come out, her orange-red light bathes and blinds you. Projected through leaves like stained-glass shadows, she lights your skin without warming your body. But on the harshest of summer's midday, she pours molten fire down on your head, boiling your blood and melting your flesh. Only the shade can bring relief, sheltered beneath those lucky trees that thrive rather than shrivel beneath her melting glare. Rocks swell and crack in the pounding light, and every living thing longs for shelter.
But when the sun goes away, we wail and moan for her promised return. At first, it seems like a blessing. After all her constant tyranny, shouldn't we celebrate a long-awaited absence? But as the overcast days stack and pile upon one another, and the shortest days and longest nights come in closer and closer succession, we beg for her return. The stars are only distant imitations, and the moon is but a pale mockery with her unearthly glow. Where is that welcoming glory, the holy hand of Ra? We worship the sun god, the God of the sun. We stare into her unblinking eye, and know that it is good.