Sonnet Of The Instruments Of Death

Adorned daggers, ruby-hilted swords; Huge mortal serpents in gold volumes roll'd; All-holy poisons in wrought cups of gold; Unfailing crucifixes of strong cords;

Mortal baptismal waters without fords, Wherein lie death's communicants untold-- Which of these instruments blessed and old, Is meetest for life's purple-robed lords?

Ye that commune in death's ciborium, Of all the vessels in his sacristy Which will ye choose to make of you a clod--

Sharp swords, bright lightnings, orient opium?-- All these, brave souls, are of one sanctity; All ways are good whereby ye pass to God.