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A Soldier-Priest
A Soldier-Priest
To J. M. K.

My hope and heart is with thee, - thou wilt be
A latter Luther and soldier-priest
To scare church-harpies from the Master’s feast;
Our dusted velvets have much need of thee:

Thou art no sabbath-drawler of old saws
Distilled from some worm-cankered homily;
But spurred at heart with fieriest energy
To embattail and to wall about thy cause

With iron-worded proof, hating to hark
The humming of the drowsy pulpit-drone
Half God’s good sabbath, while the worn-out clerk

Browbeats his desk below. Thou, from a throne
Mounted in heaven, wilt shoot into the dark
Arrows of lightnings. I will stand and mark.

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