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A Chamber in the Wartburg. Morning. Martin Luther Writing
MARTIN LUTHER. Our God, a Tower of Strength is He, | |
| A goodly wall and weapon; | |
| From all our need He helps us free, | |
| That now to us doth happen. | |
| The old evil foe | 5 |
| Doth in earnest grow, | |
| In grim armor dight, | |
| Much guile and great might; | |
| On earth there is none like him. | |
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| OH yes; a tower of strength indeed, | 10 |
| A present help in all our need, | |
| A sword and buckler is our God. | |
| Innocent men have walked unshod | |
| O’er burning ploughshares, and have trod | |
| Unharmed on serpents in their path, | 15 |
| And laughed to scorn the Devil’s wrath! | |
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| Safe in this Wartburg tower I stand | |
| Where God hath led me by the hand, | |
| And look down, with a heart at ease, | |
| Over the pleasant neighborhoods, | 20 |
| Over the vast Thuringian Woods, | |
| With flash of river, and gloom of trees, | |
| With castles crowning the dizzy heights, | |
| And farms and pastoral delights, | |
| And the morning pouring everywhere | 25 |
| Its golden glory on the air. | |
| Safe, yes, safe am I here at last, | |
| Safe from the overwhelming blast | |
| Of the mouths of Hell, that followed me fast, | |
| And the howling demons of despair | 30 |
| That hunted me like a beast to his lair. | |
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| Of our own might we nothing can; | |
| We soon are unprotected; | |
| There fighteth for us the right Man, | |
| Whom God himself elected. | 35 |
| Who is He; ye exclaim? | |
| Christus is his name, | |
| Lord of Sabaoth, | |
| Very God in troth; | |
| The field He holds forever. | 40 |
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| Nothing can vex the Devil more | |
| Than the name of Him whom we adore. | |
| Therefore doth it delight me best | |
| To stand in the choir among the rest, | |
| With the great organ trumpeting | 45 |
| Through its metallic tubes, and sing: | |
| Et verbum caro factum est! | |
| These words the Devil cannot endure, | |
| For he knoweth their meaning well! | |
| Him they trouble and repel, | 50 |
| Us they comfort and allure, | |
| And happy it were, if our delight | |
| Were as great as his affright! | |
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| Yea, music is the Prophets’ art; | |
| Among the gifts that God hath sent, | 55 |
| One of the most magnificent! | |
| It calms the agitated heart; | |
| Temptations, evil thoughts, and all | |
| The passions that disturb the soul, | |
| Are quelled by its divine control, | 60 |
| As the Evil Spirit fled from Saul, | |
| And his distemper was allayed, | |
| When David took his harp and played. | |
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| This world may full of Devils be, | |
| All ready to devour us; | 65 |
| Yet not so sore afraid are we, | |
| They shall not overpower us. | |
| This World’s Prince, howe’er | |
| Fierce he may appear, | |
| He can harm us not, | 70 |
| He is doomed, God wot! | |
| One little word can slay him! | |
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| Incredible it seems to some | |
| And to myself a mystery, | |
| That such weak flesh and blood as we, | 75 |
| Armed with no other shield or sword, | |
| Or other weapon than the Word, | |
| Should combat and should overcome | |
| A spirit powerful as he! | |
| He summons forth the Pope of Rome | 80 |
| With all his diabolic crew, | |
| His shorn and shaven retinue | |
| Of priests and children of the dark; | |
| Kill! kill! they cry, the Heresiarch, | |
| Who rouseth up all Christendom | 85 |
| Against us; and at one fell blow | |
| Seeks the whole Church to overthrow! | |
| Not yet; my hour is not yet come. | |
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| Yesterday in an idle mood, | |
| Hunting with others in the wood, | 90 |
| I did not pass the hours in vain, | |
| For in the very heart of all | |
| The joyous tumult raised around, | |
| Shouting of men, and baying of hound, | |
| And the bugle’s blithe and cheery call, | 95 |
| And echoes answering back again, | |
| From crags of the distant mountain chain,— | |
| In the very heart of this, I found | |
| A mystery of grief and pain. | |
| It was an image of the power | 100 |
| Of Satan, hunting the world about, | |
| With his nets and traps and well-trained dogs, | |
| His bishops and priests and theologues, | |
| And all the rest of the rabble rout, | |
| Seeking whom he may devour! | 105 |
| Enough I have had of hunting hares, | |
| Enough of these hours of idle mirth, | |
| Enough of nets and traps and gins! | |
| The only hunting of any worth | |
| Is where I can pierce with javelins | 110 |
| The cunning foxes and wolves and bears, | |
| The whole iniquitous troop of beasts, | |
| The Roman Pope and the Roman priests | |
| That sorely infest and afflict the earth! | |
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| Ye nuns, ye singing birds of the air! | 115 |
| The fowler hath caught you in his snare, | |
| And keeps you safe in his gilded cage, | |
| Singing the song that never tires, | |
| To lure down others from their nests; | |
| How ye flutter and beat your breasts, | 120 |
| Warm and soft with young desires | |
| Against the cruel, pitiless wires, | |
| Reclaiming your lost heritage! | |
| Behold! a hand unbars the door, | |
| Ye shall be captives held no more. | 125 |
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| The Word they shall perforce let stand, | |
| And little thanks they merit! | |
| For He is with us in the land, | |
| With gifts of his own Spirit! | |
| Though they take our life, | 130 |
| Goods, honors, child and wife, | |
| Let these pass away, | |
| Little gain have they; | |
| The Kingdom still remaineth! | |
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| Yea, it remaineth forevermore, | 135 |
| However Satan may rage and roar, | |
| Though often he whispers in my ears: | |
| What if thy doctrines false should be? | |
| And wrings from me a bitter sweat. | |
| Then I put him to flight with jeers, | 140 |
| Saying: Saint Satan! pray for me; | |
| If thou thinkest I am not saved yet! | |
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| And my mortal foes that lie in wait | |
| In every avenue and gate! | |
| As to that odious monk John Tetzel, | 145 |
| Hawking about his hollow wares | |
| Like a huckster at village fairs, | |
| And those mischievous fellows, Wetzel, | |
| Campanus, Carlstadt, Martin Cellarius, | |
| And all the busy, multifarious | 150 |
| Heretics, and disciples of Arius, | |
| Half-learned, dunce-bold, dry and hard, | |
| They are not worthy of my regard, | |
| Poor and humble as I am. | |
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| But ah! Erasmus of Rotterdam, | 155 |
| He is the vilest miscreant | |
| That ever walked this world below! | |
| A Momus, making his mock and mow, | |
| At Papist and at Protestant, | |
| Sneering at St. John and St. Paul, | 160 |
| At God and Man, at one and all; | |
| And yet as hollow and false and drear, | |
| As a cracked pitcher to the ear, | |
| And ever growing worse and worse! | |
| Whenever I pray, I pray for a curse | 165 |
| On Erasmus, the Insincere! | |
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| Philip Melancthon! thou alone | |
| Faithful among the faithless known, | |
| Thee I hail, and only thee! | |
| Behold the record of us three! | 170 |
| Res et verba Philippus, | |
| Res sine verbis Lutherus; | |
| Erasmus verba sine re! | |
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| My Philip, prayest thou for me? | |
| Lifted above all earthly care, | 175 |
| From these high regions of the air, | |
| Among the birds that day and night | |
| Upon the branches of tall trees | |
| Sing their lauds and litanies, | |
| Praising God with all their might, | 180 |
| My Philip, unto thee I write. | |
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| My Philip! thou who knowest best | |
| All that is passing in this breast; | |
| The spiritual agonies, | |
| The inward deaths, the inward hell, | 185 |
| And the divine new births as well, | |
| That surely follow after these, | |
| As after winter follows spring; | |
| My Philip, in the night-time sing | |
| This song of the Lord I send to thee; | 190 |
| And I will sing it for thy sake, | |
| Until our answering voices make | |
| A glorious antiphony, | |
| And choral chant of victory! | |
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