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.