My first encounter with the Horned God, like that of most Westerners, was through the warped eyes of Christianity - A twisted, corrupted version of Himself, made by the Church synonymous with Satan, the horned, goat-headed Baphomet, in a masterstroke that would see all of Europe converted to the Cross, by sword and flame, where necessary.
But of course, the Lord of the Hunt was not these things. Hearkening back to the most ancient of our prehistory, he was Warrior, Father, Sage, representing all things male, be it for good or ill. He was the violent, raging berserker, the gentle father, the passionate lover, the hunter, the warrior. He was both boastful and modest in confidence, young and old. Each Spring he would be reborn to his own union, only to die again in the Winter. And so he represented the eternal cycle of death and rebirth that nature is.
I have since come to identify much more closely with the Goddess in her aspects, for obvious reasons, but for a time, the Horned God was what I aspired to, when I was most desperately trying to be a man, and He still holds a special place in my heart. In his positive role, he represents all to me that a man should be: Calm, confident, courageous yet gentle, a provider to his clan and a protector to those weaker than him, all creatures.
by Kythera of Anevern
Cernunnos
Beneath the sediment of aeons
In ancient repose
My trust lay eroded by age
The old glory faded
And past times forgotten
My reign given way to my rage
Harmonious the centuries
The land and I were one
My soil, my water, my air
Bringer of light
And master of night
In balance, the earth in my care
But with the passing of days
A new wind came blowing
With whispers of change on its wing
This tide of corruption
Laid siege to my world
Usurping the throne of a king
Your new gods, your new ways
All seek to dispel me
With doctrines of fear built on lies
The hidden one, no longer
I claim my dominion
To the sun of your age, I arise
Of your anger, Your ignorance, Your blindness, Your greed
Your progress, Your conquest, Your mania, Your need
Your sorrow, Your sickness, Your final, parting breath
Your hatred, Your bloodshed, Your future, Your death
I will have none
I will have none
I will have none
I will have none
I, dread lord of shadows
With broken spell
Unto this rotting age
I bid farewell
Bles-sed be!
by William Faith, of Faith and the Muse
~Simone.
