I wrote this poem thing quite awhile ago. After seeing that I hadn’t made a blog post here in a bit, I decided to put it here. I don’t really care what you think about it as I am just posting to keep my blog up to date, though it’s here for your viewing pleasure.
“Hold My Line”
The clandestine battle lines of The King before me they
Play the symphony of grace-topped war drums atop battle steeds and
They remind me, “Watchman, hold my line, for your failure’s failure is at hand and victory is nigh at the footstool of the divine heavenly.”
Beating breasts and stomping feet are what I hear
The war song sung; called Doxology.
The King rides before His men and looks across the way to see they the grey masses approaching and promises victory this day.
He says that we WILL NOT falter as he points to the blood-alter banner of the stained cross where the Son King, very same, was slain.
“Hold my line, and don’t you give up on me! Keep pressing in and push them to very sea.” He thunders.
And so begins the invasion-march to win the land that won’t be won until victory has already been had.
And I see a glint of the coming dawn reflect off of my pre-victory award, not a crown, but a sword, not to sit upon any head, but the be unsheathed at the beckoning of a rancor warlord.
“Hold My Line!” He shouts as we march ever onward, ever downward to be humbled by the bumbling of these the masses.
The King makes it clear that our goal is not destruction and damnation but capture and conquest of these most wordly of nations.
How great the pain of searing loss must have been felt by this king to have such a revenge of love planned to want to bring
Murderers and liars back into open arms of loving.
“Don’t you dare give up on me, because I won’t give up on them!”
He says like a piercing word sword fit only for holy and unseen war.
The war drums again beat
The warriors again chant
The King again rides as he draws his blade as a tear draws from his eyes and he says:
“Suffer well, and you Hold. My. Line.”
