Thrasher's Call

They loathe this sign of membership, spew back, with rage, contempt; they spurn the work of sorrow’s whip, they feel themselves, by right, exempt from meekness; and as I attempt to turn their inward gaze above, their battle-flag waves red resent— —ment, blotting out His banner-love. Their eagle-song shrieks war; the dove of mercy skewer, fierce. No quarter they afford to give, no freely giving of the grace that flows like water from the Convict pierced. They chain themselves to conquest who take the creed “admit no loss”; and in their trampling souls, they cast away the Servant’s cross.