The Hymn to Dionysus

by Natasha Pulley

Sing, sing to the lord of the dance . . .

Thunder-wrought and city-razing—”

“—king, king of the holy raging—”

Sing, sing to the lord of the dance, Lightning-born and madness-bearing, Bring, bring to him wine and ivy . . .

Sing, sing to the lord of the dance, Revel-bright and border-breaking Ring, ring the bells . . .

On one level, you know that people made them: there was a human smith, once. But on another, you know that that smith was guided by a god, and what you’re seeing, what you’re really seeing, is an echo of what Hephaestus could make for Zeus—a shadow of something divine.

Sing, sing to the lord of the dance Thunder-wrought and city-razing King, king of the holy raging, Rave and rise again.

Gods don’t care about what’s in your heart. Gods care about what’s happening

“Belief never made a god, and nor did sacrifice. They just are.”