A Signet of Michael

by Nirina Nancy Mignon
(To be said after a nightmare)

As wakened from the sleep of indolence,

Th’ blare of vulgar revelries dampened to none,

As the lovely set on lilies, I wake to mine innocence.

I yawn at incarnadine vanities,

Through the Lord my God, the signed cross have I made mine penance;

Mine heart a crest emblazoned, th’ embers stoked by a contrite countenance;

Mine eyes glassed as pearls, which no doting doth entice.

For frowardness and not a guest of puppetry th’ Lord sets despise.

I scoff at the field of snares mine enemies bodiless hath set for me,

Let them be jolted at their own calamity.

Sooth, only for them tonight was there torment,

For their every toil of terror is fruitless,

In their own prideful froth drown these hirelings of bloodguiltiness.

In their bickering and clucking, are they envious of my Lord.

In the stocks unloving are bound their useless claws,

Of their souls writ they marked in contract clause,

That no lackey is to serve two masters,

To receive bloody pennies and the bread sold;

Of their own lashes are there to scold.

The Lord hath given me a content grail,

A gourd to replenish me after mine assail:

Prayer was I given,

As soap to the maw of worming harlots,

For how oft hath our lips been confiscated chariots,

And locuted for another!

Avaunt to all crude, th’ lips strange as chaff hath dried

By His brigade, deliverance projected my Lord,

A swift carrion death unto locusts by the flaming sword,

Much as vixens writhing taste the sandal of Michael;

The cloak of humility that parches hornèd counsel,

Stern judgement as reproof to each seven of cups.

None as wished by the ignoble, is ambitioned to wist

“Rejoice! The lips of fortune have I kiss’d!”

Lastly, compunction was I given,

Each tear of mine lament according to th’ nails driven,

In each of belovèd Christ’s punctures, hath flown triumph.

That we may deny th’ death of ay, and the temptations leading,

Each lucre rebuked, interceded by the Archangel,

To changelings saith th’ faithful:

“I know ye not. Depart from me,

Workers of iniquity!”