698 and 704

They call it the Crusader’s Hymn—but I

would do no violence underneath its sound.

For while its harmonies soar in the sky,

I see not foes, but brothers all around.

So tell me no crusade now, when you sing,

unless your holy land be a white flag.

No sword can steal, from Him who stole death’s sting,

the vict’ry of the conquered cross, that dragged

from clay to heaven, all the souls of men;

and will, for my soul, do still, every time

I can recall to sing, once and again,

the Lord’s own praise, composed in chord and rhyme.

Crusader’s Hymn? Crusade not holy land,

but your place in the hollow of His hand.

~~~

The hate must not now end—no, it cannot

be realized either. It’s the haze that keeps

the fungus from fully turning to rot,

and from fully waking the one who sleeps.

For in that state of both, the body moves—

can actuate its joints and muscles. Then

don’t ask it to reject what hatred proves

is best for it. Let hate be fuel again!

At least when loathing reigns, the progress ticks

as visible as seconds on a clock.

Love is an hourhand, and only pricks

when torturous time’s in the mood to talk.

But how I love love’s voice. Would that he’d speak

more than once, only past a quiet streak.