Archers of the King

Time was,
    no archer
    with impunity
Pierced by
    proud armor.
    Never arrow flew
But passed
    its mate midway.
    Whose livery
The bowman wore
    I took no heed, nor knew
What master artisan with faultless craft
Had forged the arrows, till one hour of stress
When stricken sore I drew the splintered shaft
And found engraven on it, I.H.S.

O Arrow-Maker with the wounded hands,
My bitterness is shattered into tears,
And now at length my dull heart understands
The need of pain. I wait the coming years
With empty quiver and a slackening string,
Disarmed before the archers of the King.

-- Sister Mary Genoveva, from The Golden Book of Catholic Poetry.
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