Classic Poem

Could I but see you, Comrade, as that day
You snatched the whip-cord in a wrathful hand
And drove with swift flail of your stern command
The money-changers from their shame away,
Beyond the Temple steps to cheat and pray,
Man-furious in splendid anger stand
Like pillared flame by surge of tempest fanned,
I would not ask you one hot blow to stay.
Long have they bartered in your tenderness,
The smirking Temple-rogues who cheat us now;
Smite with your lash that beats like jagged hail;
Pity them not, for they were pitiless;
Strike in white anger, glad avenger, now,
And in your hand I shall become the flail.