Cherubim sing atonal hymns in Baroque halls where even a Demon can be corrupted; seduced by music to sway with the crowd, wrapped in the lovely arms of sweet harmony. Incense burns in the sacristy where even an Angel can be turned; seduced by dance, seduced by drumbeat, gripped in the red hand of savage dissonance. The enlightened close ranks and minds, steal souls, hold hostages, chant psalms to deaden the screams. -Opportunists in league with the One who throws dice with the left hand while the right gathers lambs -and the wolves fresh from the sight of God hunger for the flesh, the blood, and any innocent will do. Outside the Cathedral fathers twist arms, “Alms for the King. Alms for the One who need not to ask.” Mothers carry pictures of Saints and pray for Holy Orders. The Sisters and Brothers fall into soft white arms as the tender mercy closes in. Markers will serve as reminders of the cost of secrets to those who refuse to ask. They steal away, these Sisters and Brothers, bloodstained, to trade with whores, addicts -all those compelled to ask. At the mercy of Angels and Demons, these Saints of the alleys become Martyrs. Finding their way to the cross, without the ransom of thirty pieces, they join in the murderous ritual. Can we tell what these dead will inherit? Is there guilt, damnation, or the tender mercy and its sweet release?