And now, the season the celibates celebrate.

In praise of praising,

Mouths are moaning, arms are raising,

The hour is growing late.

The self-violated virgins, the black priests

Now have their day.

They circle the castrated Christ, for the feast

Is almost underway.

They kneel beneath the bloody cross,

Where all their hopes are nailed,

And glory in their loss,

Forgetting that another year has failed.

And as they gaze upon his lovely face,

He begins to shine with a blinding light,

Then he disappears without a trace,

As day turns into night.