Iconoclasm

Bright light, peaceful light, Free light, light unbound! What is this, brother light? In thy warm home thou’rt found By censers smoked, By priests’ robes choked, Fettered and fooled And by Icons ruled. Yield thee not in the fight, Waken up, brother light! Shed thy pure rays On mankind’s ways. All priestly robes in rags we’ll tear And light our pipes from censers rare, With Icons now the flames will roar, With holy brooms we’ll sweep the floor.