Shield of Faith

Done is a battell on the dragon blak, 
Our campioun Chryst confountet hes his force; 
The yettis of hell ar brokin with a crak, 
The signe triumph all rasit is of the croce, 
The divillis trymmillis with hiddous voce, 
The saulis ar borrowit and to the blis can go, 
Chryst with his blud our ransonis dois indoce: 
Surrexit dominus de sepulchro.

Dungin is the deidly dragon Lucifer, 
The crewall serpent with the mort all stang, 
The auld kene tegir with his teith on char 
Quhilk in a wait hes lyne for us so lang, 
Thinking to grip us in his clowis strang: 
The mercifull lord wald nocht that it wer so, 
He maid him for to felye of that fang: 
Surrexit dominus de sepulchro.

He for our saik that sufferit to be slane 
And lyk a lamb in sacrifice wes dicht, 
Is lyk a lyone rissin up agane, 
And as a gyane raxit him on hicht: 
Sprungin is Aurora radius and bricht, 
On loft is gone the glorius Appollo, 
The blisfull day depairtit fro the nycht: 
Surrexit dominus de sepulchro. 

The grit victour agane is rissin on hicht  
That for our querrell to the deth wes woundit; 
The sone that wox all paill now schynis bricht, 
And, dirknes clerit, our fayth is now refoundit: 
The knell of mercy fra the hevin is soundit, 
The Cristin ar deliverit of thair wo,
The Jowis and thair errour ar confoundit: 
Surrexit dominus de sepulchro.

The fo is chasit, the battell is done ceis, 
The presone brokin, the jevellouris fleit and flemit, 
The weir is gon, confermit is the peis, 
The fetteris lowsit and the dungeoun temit, 
The ransoun maid, the presoneris redemit, 
The feild is win, ourcummin is the fo, 
Dispulit of the tresur that he yemit: 
Surrexit dominus de sepulchro.

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Love bade me welcome: yet my soul drew back,
Guilty of dust and sin. 
But quick-ey'd Love, observing me grow slack
From my first entrance in,
Drew nearer to me, sweetly questioning,
If I lack'd anything. 

A guest, I answer'd, worthy to be here:
Love said, You shall be he. 
I the unkind, ungrateful? Ah, my dear,
I cannot look on thee. 
Love took my hand, and smiling did reply,
Who made the eyes but I? 

Truth, Lord, but I have marr'd them: let my shame
Go where it doth deserve. 
And know you not, says Love, who bore the blame? 
My dear, then I will serve. 
You must sit down, says Love, and taste my meat:
So I did sit and eat.

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  Oh yet we trust that somehow good
    Will be the final goal of ill,
    To pangs of nature, sins of will,
Defects of doubt, and taints of blood;

That nothing walks with aimless feet;
    That not one life shall be destroy'd,
    Or cast as rubbish to the void,
When God hath made the pile complete;

That not a worm is cloven in vain;
    That not a moth with vain desire
    Is shrivell'd in a fruitless fire,
Or but subserves another's gain.

Behold, we know not anything;
    I can but trust that good shall fall
    At last -- far off -- at last, to all,
And every winter change to spring.

So runs my dream: but what am I?
    An infant crying in the night:
    An infant crying for the light:
And with no language but a cry.

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