Lines in Prison

I was flipping through my recently begun attempt at a Commonplace Book and saw the first stanza of this poem by Anne Askew, who was martyred in 1546 at the age of 25.
It caught my eye because I had just come across the entire poem for the first time in A Sacrifice of Praise: An Anthology of Christian Poetry in England from Caedmon to the Mid-Twentieth Century, edited by James H. Trott. So then I read the section about her in Trial and Triumph: Stories from Church History by Richard M. Hannula and learned that she wrote this poem in her prison cell, after being declared a heretic and sentenced to death by burning. On July 16 1546, after having been tortured at the Tower of London (in a failed attempt to extract evidence from her against other ladies of the court) she was taken to be burned at the stake. She was offered a king's pardon if she would recant, but she refused.

"Anne Askew's bravery in the face of death still shines as a beautiful example of the faithfulness of God to uphold His children in the midst of great trial."
- Trial and Triumph: Stories from Church History
by Richard M. Hannula

Lines in Prison

Like as the armed knight,
Appointed to the field,
With this world will I fight,
And faith shall be my shield.

Faith is that weapon strong,
Which will not fail at need;
My foes therefore among
Therewith will I proceed.

As it is had in strength
And force of Christ his way,
It will prevail at length
Though all the devils say nay.

Faith in the Father’s old
Obtained righteousness
Which maketh me so bold
To fear no world’s distress.

I now rejoice in heart,
And hope bids me do so,
For Christ will take my part
And ease me of my woe.

Thou say’st Lord, whoso knock
To them wilt thou attend;
Undo therefore the lock,
And thy strong power down send.

More enemies I have
Than hairs to crown my head,
Let them not me deprave,
But fight thou in my stead.

On thee my care I cast,
For all their cruel spite;
I set not by their haste,
For thou art my delight.

I am not she that list
My anchor to let fall
For every drizzling mist,
My ship’s substantial.

Not oft use I to write
In prose, nor yet in rime;
Yet will I show one sight
That I saw in my time.

I saw a royal throne
Where justice should have sit,
But in her stead was one
Of moody cruel wit.

Absorbed was righteousness
As by a raging flood;
Satan in fierce excess
Sucked up the guiltless blood.

Then thought I--Jesu, Lord!
When thou shalt judge us all,
Hard is it to record
On these men what will fall.

Yet Lord, I thee desire,
For what they do to me
Let them not taste the hire
Of their iniquity.