My white archangel, with thy steady eyes
Outlooking on this silent, ghost-filled room,
Thy clasped hands wrapped on thy sheathed sword or doom,
Thy firm-closed lips, not made for human sighs,
Kisses, or smiles, or writhing agonies,
But for divine exhorting, heavenly song,
Bold, righteous counsel, sweet from seraph tongue--
Beautiful angel, strong as thou art wise,
Would that thy sight could make me wise and strong!
Would that this sword of thine, which idle lies
Stone-planted, could wake up and gleam among
The crowd of demons that with eager cries
Howl in my heart temptations of world's wrong!
_Lama Sabachthani_! How long--how long!
Michael, great leader of the hosts of God,
Warrer with Satan for the body of him
Whom living, God had loved--If cherubim
With cherubim contend for one poor clod
Of human dust, with sin-stained feet that trod
Through the wide deserts of Heaven's chastisement--
Are there not ministering angels sent
To strive with evil ones that roam abroad
Clutching our living souls? 'The living, still
The living, they shall praise Thee.' Let some great
Invisible spirit enter in and fill
The howling chambers of hearts desolate,
There stand like thee, O Michael, strong and wise,
My white archangel with the steadfast eyes!