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  • Writer's pictureJohnny Gonzales

The Destruction of Sennacherib Poem by Lord Byron - When Kings Dishonor God

Updated: Aug 4, 2019



When Kings dishonor God expect utter destruction. The brilliancy of Lord Byron does not elude us.


From kingdom to kingdom as empires have come and gone it is noteworthy to adhere to the facts that the Word of God has outlasted all of man's ill vanities.


What has man learned in this 21st century? Is mankind willing to move past the earthbound vanities that corrupt him to his core?


Yes, mankind is ready to move past that anchoring weights that plummet us all toward illusion. It is that realization that ascends us heavenly and unfortunatley by the Hand of God.


Witnessed perhaps by the sages of time it is passed down from generation to child and it is here where we find Lord Byron's ingenious poetic recollection of one ill vanity, King Sennacherib and his most historical pose; his utter destruction.


This is an exercise of fact and hope. One that Lord Byron justifiably executes brilliantly to today's vanity kings.


- Johnny



The Destruction of Sennacherib



The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold, And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold; And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea, When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee.    Like the leaves of the forest when Summer is green, That host with their banners at sunset were seen: Like the leaves of the forest when Autumn hath blown, That host on the morrow lay withered and strown.    For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast, And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed; And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill, And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew still!    And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide, But through it there rolled not the breath of his pride; And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf, And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf.    And there lay the rider distorted and pale, With the dew on his brow, and the rust on his mail: And the tents were all silent, the banners alone, The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown.    And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail, And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal; And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword, Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord!


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