Of the Red Cross Errant and His Triune Foes
Sansloy, he is my daily foe, his sword, is never dull.
He calls me out to ways of anarchy; he taunts me with his shout.
With the evil of my sinfulness, Sansloy he cuts me still, but in your strength of holiness, there comes the victor’s thrill.
Your law’s commands do call me back; confession, mercy plead,
Your true and honest pedagog, so gently teaching, leads:
That on the tree was crucified, all sins of mankind’s seed, forgiveness is the healing leaf, the balm for cuts and sins, reminded of saving grace, Sansloy, he hides his face.
Sansfoy, he is the next great foe, his axe will fell me to my knees.
A giant man, he boldy walks in vales of death; he boasts of tragedy.
He knows my weakness, knows my fears; he smells my doubts with ease. Reminding me I am no Shepard King; nor even Jesse’s boy. He laughs at such a little child, and calls my weapons “toys”.
And yet, Sansfoy, he does forget, the one great worthy thing: remembering not the blood of Christ, already poured aground, but then reminded of sustaining grace, Sansfoy, he turns his face.
Sansjoy, he is the worst of all, his breath, an odious cloud.
He dwells in towers of broken light; he spies me from afar. He is an earnest enemy; he never leaves his plough.
His hands, they would tear out my heart, and turn me from the way. He wields the bitter tears of death, his tongue it does inveigh. He is a scaly nasty beast, his aim is to deceive.
He plucks the weak lambs from the flock. He brews a bitter tea.
Yet Sansjoy he does forget, the army of your saints. With brotherhood and conquering hymns, they shout the psalms of praise, announcing one great reigning king, who conquers every place, and when he sees the sovereign grace, Sansjoy, he loses face.
