The Equinox (Volume III, Number I)

272 THE EQUINOX On the brows the brand of lust, In the eyes the blaze of bliss! Life, the pimp of malice, drags Love with rape of fingers rude, Flings to dust-heap death the rags Of its bleeding maidenhood. Therefore, we, the slaves of love, Stand with trembling lips and eyes; There is that shall reach above The soul’s sullied sanctuaries. Blasphemy beneath our touch Turns to prayer’s most awed intent; The profaner’s vilest smutch Is our central sacrament. Triumph, Templars, that are sworn To that vengeance sinister, Vigilant from murk to morn By our rifled sepulchre. Death to superstition, swear! Death to tyranny, respond! By the martyred Master, dare Death, and what may lie beyond! Heel on crucifix, deny! Mouth to dagger-blade, affirm! Point to throat, we stab the spy; Hand on knee, we crush the worm.