On Michaelmas

How can immortal pierce immortal through?
This query wracked blind Milton; though he tried
To write angelic combat, it was moot,
For any wound would seal, all stakes denied.

What was it then, that gave your blade the whet
To cross and cleave and cast to earth beneath
That seven-headed drake? And with what threat
Could any creature heaven’s throne besiege?

But pushed to answer, your fist pushes back:
The cosmic conflagration still unfurls
Across the Word, diverging like a crack
Of wicked lightning jagging to the world.

The brunt of either side remains a match,
a nullifying show of cannonade,
But in the dust a fatal stroke is lashed:
A prisoner set on a dread parade.

So you were fixed to watch, sans sword or dint,
Your Maker make his lovely, grave descent.