O cohors militiae

O cohort of the guard
of the thornless
branch’s flower:
You are the sound
of all the world,
surrounding all the places where
the senseless sensuous
are feasting with the swine
that you subdue
by the Comforter, the Aide poured out
of the Father’s Word that plants the roots
that grow into the tabernacles of
his fulfilled work.

You are the Savior’s noble race,
entering upon the way
of birth anew
of water through the Lamb,
who’s sent you with the sword
among the wildest dogs,
their glory they
themselves destroy
within the works of their own fingers,
as the One Not Made by hand they rate
as subject to the works of their own hands,
in which they cannot find him.