O Father

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O Father

Poem — An Invocation to The Master #86

How many births have been mine,
Birthing into this little life’s prison,
Enduring unending penalty of breath
To win an ungainly prize of death.

But the births by Thee midwifed
Of beings now strangely suspended,
Awaiting sanction of Thy behest
From earth-destiny a victory to wrest.

These beings at once kin and brood
Now seek in action fulfilment’s food.
O Father primordial, heralder of dawn,
Pour vigour-streams down as rain,

Sound from cloud-cymbals waking thunder,
For our arms grant Thy lightning-cleaver,
Make bannermen of the fury and storm
Emblazoned with Thy shining name.

These we shall take to battle of day
And the daily siege of night all sly,
To Thy safekeeping we entrust our souls,
Equal to the gamble of victory or loss.

But grant to us seized in this grim melee,
When all is done a dwelling in Thy proximity.