Shapes of Clay

See, Lord, fanatics all arrayed

For revolution!

To foil their villainous crusade

Unsheathe again the sacred blade

Of persecution.

What though through long disuse 't is grown

A trifle rusty?

'Gainst modern heresy, whose bone

Is rotten, and the flesh fly-blown,

It still is trusty.

Of sterner stuff thine ancient foes,

Unapprehensive,

Sprang forth to meet thy biting blows;

Our zealots chiefly to the nose

Assume the offensive.

Then wield the blade their necks to hack,

Nor ever spare one.

Thy crowns of martyrdom unpack,

But see that every martyr lack

The head to wear one.