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Strong, stern, that warrior stood: looming tall
With sword of cold steel agleam in his hand
Defying with death his enemies, all
Who’d keep him from claiming complete command.

Indeed invincible he seemed and dire
That keen lance, silver shield and helm of gold;
Eyes ablaze with terrible twisted fire
Flame accursed: corrupt desire, dauntless, bold.

Pride blazoned on his crest, the tyrant grim
Saw one ill-dressed, weak, uncomely walk out
To take him down, break his crown, dethrone him!
Laughing, he let fly his lance with a shout.

His horrid cry rang out with rage and spite
Though the challenger uttered not a sound
Nor dodged the deadly dart, nor charged to fight
And so was hit, and fell limp to the ground.

An Achillean doom, a mortal wound
To his heel, he lay down amoung the slain.
Then gloated the great king: “My foe is ruined,
A flowing bath of blood all that remains!”

He gloried in dread delight o’er the gore
Of the corpse, when he saw it rise up straight
And turn to face him, now fraught with fright, for
The feeble foe now seemed surpassing great.

By quiet strength his rage and roar were hushed
The deadly weapons stripped from off his frame
And under the Meek Foot his head was crushed
Now naked flees whene’er he hears That Name.

~ Andrew vonderLuft, 19 February 1983

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