SIN-STALKERS

We are the dogs of the Lord, and our gowns
are as black as our inquisitorial nights;
the diligent clacking of rosaries drowns
our hem-whisper in time with the droning last rites.

Mother Church comes behind us; we strain at her lead.
If there's straying from doctrine we hear her sad moan;
she is vexed more by heretic word than by deed:
one error pronounced is a dragon tooth sown.

She unleashes us, Thomas's Book in one hand,
in the other a thumbscrew or rope to persuade;
we strain forward; our girdles are dragging through sand
as we snap at untruths in our Cathar crusade.

Though we like breaking bodies, our forte is wills:
they crack stiffly and come to the aid of no sect.
It's the fire that preserves and the taming that kills,
so the penitents happily lose self-respect.

We are the dogs of the Lord, and we aid
Jesus Christ, meek and mild, to impose his regime:
the foundations of heaven have likewise been laid
to replenish our coffers and make us supreme.