Michael The Archangel

A Statuette. I. MY white archangel, with thy steadfast eyes Beholding all this empty ghost-filled room, Thy clasped hands resting on the sword of doom, Thy firm, close lips, not made for human sighs Or smiles, or kisses sweet, or bitter cries, But for divine exhorting, holy song And righteous counsel, bold from seraph tongue. Beautiful angel, strong as thou art wise, Would that the sight of thee made wise and strong! Would that this sheathèd sword of thine, which lies Stonily idle, could gleam out among The spiritual hosts of enemies That tempting shriek--'Requite thou wrong with wrong.' Lama Sabachthani,--How long, how long. II. MICHAEL, the leader of the hosts of God, Who warred with Satan for the body of him Whom, living, God had loved--If cherubim With cherubim contended for one clod Of human dust, for forty years that trod The gloomy desert of Heaven's chastisement, Are there not ministering angels sent To battle with the devils 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; With looks like thine, O Michael, strong and wise, My white archangel with the steadfast eyes.