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Namespaces Article Talk. Views Read Edit View history. Help Learn to edit Community portal Recent changes Upload file. Blood flowed out of the winepress as high as a horse's bridle for 1, stadia. International Standard Version The wine press was trampled outside the city, and blood flowed from the wine press as high as a horse's bridle for about 1, stadia.
Literal Standard Version and the winepress was trodden outside of the city, and blood came forth out of the winepress—to the bridles of the horses, one thousand six hundred stadia. NET Bible Then the winepress was stomped outside the city, and blood poured out of the winepress up to the height of horses' bridles for a distance of almost two hundred miles. New Heart English Bible The winepress was trodden outside of the city, and blood came out from the winepress, even to the bridles of the horses, as far as one hundred eighty four miles.
Weymouth New Testament And the winepress was trodden outside the city, and out of it came blood reaching the horses' bridles for a distance of miles. World English Bible The winepress was trodden outside of the city, and blood came out from the winepress, even to the bridles of the horses, as far as one thousand six hundred stadia.
Young's Literal Translation and trodden was the wine-press outside of the city, and blood did come forth out of the wine-press -- unto the bridles of the horses, a thousand, six hundred furlongs.
Additional Translations In the poem The White Horse, Gwendolyn MacEwen uses imagery, symbolism, contrast, and some punctuation to bring out the ideas and style of her work. Throughout the poem, MacEwen also utilizes religious ideas from the Bible in order to provide insight and depth.
These techniques and ideas are used to help to imply the search for everlasting peace in a corrupt world of war and conflict. This can relate to an event in the Bible, where in the book of Revelation, Jesus rides a white horse down towards the earth. Jesus and the colour white can be symbols of divinity, peace, and purity. The purpose of Jesus coming to earth may be the proclamation of a path to eternal peace and paradise — affiliated to the stories in the Bible.
The rare punctuation in this stanza gives the reader a quickened pace, which emphasizes the chaos in the world. For he dwelleth in high divisions Too simple to understand, Seeing on what morn of mystery The Uncreated rent the sea With roarings, from the land.
Through the long infant hours like days He built one tower in vain-- Piled up small stones to make a town, And evermore the stones fell down, And he piled them up again. And crimson kings on battle-towers, And saints on Gothic spires, And hermits on their peaks of snow, And heroes on their pyres, And patriots riding royally, That rush the rocking town, Stretch hands, and hunger and aspire, Seeking to mount where high and higher, The child whom Time can never tire, Sings over White Horse Down.
And this was the might of Alfred, At the ending of the way; That of such smiters, wise or wild, He was least distant from the child, Piling the stones all day. For Eldred fought like a frank hunter That killeth and goeth home; And Mark had fought because all arms Rang like the name of Rome. And Colan fought with a double mind, Moody and madly gay; But Alfred fought as gravely As a good child at play.
He saw wheels break and work run back And all things as they were; And his heart was orbed like victory And simple like despair. Therefore A Ridder On A White Horse - Lee Hazlewood - Poet Mark forgotten, That was wise with his tongue and brave; And the cairn over Colan crumbled, And the cross on Eldred's grave. Their great souls went on a wind away, And they have not tale or tomb; And Alfred born in Wantage Rules England till the doom. Because in the forest of all fears Like a strange fresh gust from sea, Struck him that ancient innocence That is more than mastery.
And as a child whose bricks fall down A Ridder On A White Horse - Lee Hazlewood - Poet them o'er and o'er, Came ruin and the rain that burns, Returning as a wheel returns, And crouching in the furze and ferns He began his life once more. He took his ivory horn unslung And smiled, but not in scorn: "Endeth the Battle of Ethandune With the blowing of a horn. And Ogier's red and hated head Moved in some talk or task; But the men seemed scattered in the brier, And some of them had lit a fire, And one had broached a cask.
And waggons one or two stood up, Like tall ships in sight, As if an outpost were encamped At the cloven ways for night. And joyous of the sudden stay Of Alfred's routed few, Sat one upon a stone to sigh, And some slipped up the road to fly, Till Alfred in the fern hard by Set horn to mouth and blew.
And they all abode like statues-- One sitting on the stone, One half-way through the thorn hedge tall, One with a leg across a wall, And one looked backwards, very small, Far up the road, alone. Grey twilight and a yellow star Hung over thorn and hill; Two spears and a cloven war-shield lay Loose on the road as cast away, The horn died faint in the forest grey, And the fleeing men stood still.
No, brothers, by your leave, I think Death is a better ale to drink, And by all the stars of Christ that sink, The Danes shall drink with me. And the King held up the horn and said, "See ye my father's horn, That Egbert blew in his empery, Once, when he rode out commonly, Twice when he rode for venery, And thrice on the battle-morn.
And when the last arrow Was fitted and was flown, When the broken shield hung on the breast, And the hopeless lance was laid in rest, And the hopeless horn blown, The King looked up, and what he saw Was a great light like death, For Our Lady stood on the standards rent, As lonely and as innocent As when between white walls she went And the lilies of Nazareth.
One instant in a still light He saw Our Lady then, Her dress was soft as western sky, And she was a queen most womanly-- But she was a queen of men. Over the iron forest He saw Our Lady stand, Her eyes were sad withouten art, And seven swords were in her heart-- But one was in her hand. Then the last charge went blindly, And all too lost for fear: The Danes closed round, a roaring ring, And twenty clubs rose o'er the King, Four Danes hewed at him, halloing, And Ogier of the Stone and Sling Drove at him with a spear.
But the Danes were wild with laughter, And the great spear swung wide, The point stuck to a straggling tree, And either host cried suddenly, As Alfred leapt aside. Short time had shaggy Ogier To pull his lance in line-- He knew King Alfred's axe on high, He heard it rushing through the sky, He cowered beneath it with a cry-- It split him to the spine: And Alfred sprang over him dead, And blew the battle sign.
Then bursting all and blasting Came Christendom like death, Kicked of such catapults of will, The staves shiver, the barrels spill, The waggons waver and crash and kill The waggoners beneath. Barriers go backwards, banners rend, Great shields groan like a gong-- Horses like horns of nightmare Neigh horribly and long.
Horses ramp high and rock and boil And break their golden reins, And slide on carnage clamorously, Down where the bitter blood doth lie, Where Ogier went on foot to die, In the old way of the Danes.
As a tide turns on the tall grey seas, See how they waver in the trees, How stray their spears, how knock their knees, How wild their watchfires burn! For dire was Alfred in his hour The pale scribe witnesseth, More mighty in defeat was he Than all men else in victory, And behind, his men came murderously, Dry-throated, drinking death.
And highest sang the slaughter, And fastest fell the slain, When from the wood-road's blackening throat A crowning and crashing wonder smote The rear-guard of the Dane.
For the dregs of Colan's company-- Lost down the other road-- Had gathered and grown and heard the din, And with wild yells came pouring in, Naked as their old British kin, And bright with blood for woad. And bare and bloody and aloft They bore before their band The body of the mighty lord, Colan of Caerleon and its horde, That bore King Alfred's battle-sword Broken in his left hand. And a strange music went with him, Loud and yet strangely far; The wild pipes of the western land, Too keen for the ear to understand, Sang high and deathly on each hand When the dead man went to war.
Blocked between ghost and buccaneer, Brave men have dropped and died; And the wild sea-lords well might quail As the ghastly war-pipes of the Gael Called to the horns of White Horse Vale, And all the horns replied.
And Hildred the poor hedger Cut down four captains dead, And Halmar laid three others low, And the great earls wavered to and fro For Fool Or Bum / Back On The Street Again (CD) living and the dead.
As a turn of the wheel of tempest Tilts up the whole sky tall, And cliffs of wan cloud luminous Lean out like great walls over us, As if the heavens might fall.
As such a tall and tilted sky Sends certain snow or light, So did the eyes of Guthrum change, And the turn was more certain and more strange Than a thousand men in flight. For not till the floor of the skies is split, And hell-fire shines through the sea, Or the stars look up through the rent earth's knees, Cometh such rending of certainties, As when one wise man truly sees What is more wise than he.
He set his horse in the battle-breech Even Guthrum of the Dane, And as ever had fallen fell his brand, A falling Fool Or Bum / Back On The Street Again (CD) o'er many a land, But Gurth the fowler laid one hand Upon this bridle rein. King Guthrum was a great lord, And higher than his gods-- He put the popes to laughter, He chid the saints with rods, He took this hollow world of ours For a cup to hold his wine; In the parting of the woodways There came to him a sign.
In Wessex in the forest, In the breaking of the spears, We set a sign on Guthrum To blaze a thousand years. Where the high saddles jostle And the horse-tails toss, There rose to the birds flying A roar of dead and dying; In deafness and strong crying We signed him with the cross.
Far out to the winding river The blood ran down for days, When we put the cross on Guthrum In the parting of the ways. For not till the night's Fool Or Bum / Back On The Street Again (CD) slate is wiped Of its last star utterly, And fierce new signs writ there to read, Shall eyes with such amazement heed, As when a great man knows indeed A greater thing than he.
And there came to his chrism-loosing Lords of all lands afar, And a line was drawn north-westerly That set King Egbert's empire free, Giving all lands by the northern sea To the sons of the northern star.
In the days of the rest of Alfred, When all these things were done, And Wessex lay in a patch of peace, Like a dog in a patch of sun-- The King sat in his orchard, Among apples green and red, With the little book in his bosom And the sunshine on his head. And he gathered the songs of simple men That swing with helm and hod, And the alms he gave as a Christian Like a river alive with fishes ran; And he made gifts to a beggar man As to a wandering god.
And he gat good laws of the ancient kings, Like treasure out of the tombs; And many a thief in thorny nook, Or noble in sea-stained turret shook, For the opening of his iron book, And the gathering of the dooms. Then men would come from the ends of the earth, Whom the King sat welcoming, And men would go to the ends of the earth Because of the word of the King. For folk came in to Alfred's face Whose javelins had been hurled On monsters that make boil the sea, Crakens and coils of mystery.
Or thrust in ancient snows that be The white hair of the world. And some had knocked at the northern gates Of the ultimate icy floor, Where the fish freeze and the foam turns black, And the wide world narrows to a track, And the other sea at the world's back Cries through a closed door.
And men went forth from Alfred's face, Even great gift-bearing lords, Not to Rome only, but more bold, Out to the high hot courts of old, Of negroes clad in cloth of gold, Silence, and crooked swords, Scrawled screens and secret gardens And insect-laden skies-- Where fiery plains stretch on and on To the purple country of Prester John And the walls of Paradise. And he knew the might of the Terre Majeure, Where kings began to reign; Where in a night-rout, without name, Of gloomy Goths and Gauls there came White, above candles all aflame, Like a vision, Charlemagne.
And men, seeing such embassies, Spake with the King and said: "The steel that sang so sweet a tune On Ashdown and on Ethandune, Why hangs it scabbarded so soon, All heavily like lead? Three more such marches like thine own Would end them; and the Pict should own Our sway; and our feet climb the throne In the mountains of Strathclyde. And right to the red torchlight, From the trouble of morning grey, They stripped the White Horse of the grass As they strip it to this day. And under the red torchlight He went dreaming as though dull, Of his old companions slain like kings, And the rich irrevocable things Of a heart that hath not openings, But is shut fast, being full.
And the torchlight touched the pale hair Where silver clouded gold, And the frame of his face was made of cords, And a young lord turned among the lords And said: "The King is old. And the smile of him Was like the sun for power. In the same manner angels have animal like features Cherubimthere are an array of creatures that dwell in heaven. So the first rider on the white horse conquers at the beginning of the tribulation as a judgmenthe is not Jesus.
But Jesus comes back on a white horse to end the Tribulation by judging the evil ones that have taken control of the earth. He will then separate the sheep from the goats in the coming days Mt. Articles can be reproduced in portions for ones personal use. Any other use is to have the permission of Let Us Reason Ministries first. Thank A Ridder On A White Horse - Lee Hazlewood - Poet.
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