Crusader's Prayer

I am but a rude utensil, One of many hammered tools Graded by our dust and scissel, Offcast from the grinding spool.

Let the Light, the hand that wields me, Use us as it measures fit, Take us up and strike us freely; To this end we all commit.

One day when I'm worn past mending, If my service is complete, May my cinders, on their sending, Bless the earth for later feet.

If these ashes prove enduring, Clean enough after it all, Let their purpose be ensuring Guard and solace where they fall.

But that day has yet to find me: Praise the Light for dawns to come! Have we labored true and kindly? Have we stayed death's dogged thumb?

Gently, gently, gently set me Facing east and lying still. Seal my stresses, make me ready. I will watch and ward the chill.

If one plea could move the morrow, I have only one appeal: Time addresses fear and sorrow; Grant enough to part anneal

Then until again commanded, Of the life with which I'm blessed, Though yet to commission branded, Comfort me and let me rest.