Mute in the arc-light stands
time with a whip; their loins
cringe, on blunted paws.  His hands
   are twisted in their manes.
They circle at his commands.

Meek and magnificent
   from cages, the gelded lions
fawn on our intent,
fearing punishment.

They rushing in darkness were
eyed like the sun with rage;
living sulphur, a fire.
But love stripped Samson's hair.
We beat them to our cage.