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THROUGHING INK AT THE DEVIL

At Wartburg Castle sat a Son of Thunder

Dealing Heaven’s Dynamite

When lo! Before him ‘peared an apperation Furry threatening Damon sight.


The piercing words of truth, so long be-smothered Flashed the burning wrath upon The devils patent monk and pope religion,

Who confronts the dread reform.

A thousand years of stupid chains of darkness Bound the devil in his pit.

His creeds and bulls held fast the world in bondage Leaving him at leisure.

That thousand years thought yet to come

in babel Fancy pictured reign of peace—

Passed while the souls of martyrs ‘neath the altar Waited till the evening grace

While earth groped on in darkest superstition, Ruled by cassock, cowl, and priest,

Few souls had life for satan’s bent to slaughter, Chained him from wanted feast.

But with the early gleams of reformation,

He in person re-appears

His int’rest trusted not to deputation,

Quiekly breaks the thousand years.

Before the dauntless, lion-hearted Luther

Forth the hellish monster stood,

Drawn from his prison by the scattering thesis ‘Gainst the Romish viper brood.

He lifted up his eyebrows knit with thunder,

To the hellish spectre said With stern address

“DU BIST DEN WAHRE TEUFEL.”
Hurls an inkstand at his head.

How potent proved the Doctor’s splattering missile, Hist’ry leaves us no memoir.

But ink he threw on paper at the devil,

Battered down his kingdom more.

Still on mercy moved the Great Eternal, Re-instating Heaven’s truth;

Long fallen in the filthy streets of babel,

Trampled under foot forsooth.

A season passed of mingled light and darkness, Counted neither day or night.

With each reform break in more gleams of brightness, Loosing satan more to fight.

But now at last the fogs and mist are scattered, And the sanctuary purged. The hidings of the devil thus demolished, By the hand he’s surely scourged.

The Dragon forced to open field of battle,

Driven from his final trench.

Can’t throw up another line of babel,

Thence from storm of truth to flinch.

He would ‘tis true whitewash his sect divisions Pass them for the wholly bride.

But truth uncaps the wicked corporations,

And her founder cannot hide.

The light reveals her in every quarter,

And she’s strewn with dead men’s bones; Remains of souls that long have fed her slaughter; Hell with many a victim groans.

Thus chafed to anger like a beast of fury,

When denied a skulking den,

And tantalized by thunderbolts of fire,

Satan writhed within his pen.

At last he breaks the chains of self possession, Doth his best what time he hath. Well knowing that he’s but a little season’ Comes he forth in utmost wrath.

Now loosed, his imps o’er all this earth are swarming; But retreating toward the brink, Driven back by truth in thunder rolling, And the rapid flying ink.

Not as did the sturdy Wittenburger

Fling his ink stand at the foe,

But by mighty force of steam much faster

We the battle ink can throw.

At a point where two lightning tracks lay crossing Northward, southward, east and west,

God has planted there a Campbell mortar

Firing ink at satan’s crest.

This enginery by modern skill constructed,

Hath a strong capacious fount,

Whence ink, by rollers to and fro

conducted, Into ammunition count

The ink rolls o’er ten thousand silent voices,

All in rank and file complete;

When touched, each one prepares His trump

for sounding,

He sheets borne round by cylindric motion,

Take the type’s impressive kiss,

Inspiring them with love and truth’s great mission, And salvation’s perfect bliss.

Not only toward the main fourwinds of Heaven, Sin consuming ink is shot;

But right and left in force, ‘tis outward given, Striking sin in every spot.

When round “Mansoul” Emanuel plants His army, To retake the famous town,

On “eye-gate” hill He plants this mighty engine,

Till surrendered to His Crown.

If chance a pilgrim’s shield of faith is drooping, And his heart with fear oppressed;

Then comes the Ink winged angel,

trumpet sounding-And his soul anew is blest

*NOTE: The poem "Throwing Ink at the Devil" refers to the printing and publishing of The Gospel Trumpet. The place "where two lightning tracks lie crossing” is Grand Junction, Michigan, where the publishing office was then located. 

** Also references to John Bunyan's writings.