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
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! 
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
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! 
Ye nuns, ye singing birds of the air! 
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 heat your breasts,
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.

  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,
    Goods, honors, child and wife,
    Lot these pass away,
    Little gain have they;
  The Kingdom still remaineth!

Yea, it remaineth forevermore,
However Satan may rage and roar,
Though often be 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,
Saying:  Saint Satan! pray for me;
If thou thinkest I am not saved yet!

And my mortal foes that lie in wait
In every avenue and gate! 
As to that odious monk John Tetzel,
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
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.

But ah!  Erasmus of Rotterdam,
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,
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
On Erasmus, the Insincere!

Philip Melanethon! thou alone
Faithful among the faithless known,
Thee I hail, and only thee! 
Behold the record of us three! 
   Res et verba Philippus,
   Res sine verbis Lutherus;
   Erasmus verba sine re!

My Philip, prayest thou for me? 
Lifted above all earthly care,
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,
My Philip, unto thee I write,