by Sandra Miesel
By God's high throne of thundercloud
Upborne by angels mailed for war,
Thick rage of darkness will I raise,
A shieldwall summoned from afar.
Stark sword of lightning will I wield.
Keen edges cleaving hosts of Hell
To smite and sear invading hordes
So in blest freedom all may dwell.
Stern rush of whirlwind will I call,
Swift gyre of judgment billows bold
To fan the balefires in dead boughs,
That feigned New Kind accurst of old.
Go forth my tempest, scour stars
As bright as souls of righteous men;
For when thy cleansing wrath has waned,
The stillest Voice shall sound. Amen.
copyright 1982 by Sandra Miesel
