A Sword and a Cause.

To have a sword and have a cause,

To feel your heart inflamed with wrath

And yet stand helpless as evil is committed

My sword remains in its sheath, my dagger on my hip

I stand down at the commander’s call

Though I long to join the fray.

My friends are dying,

Comrades, partners, brothers in arms

They all fall prey to the massive slaughter

Why must I wait? Why can I not fight?

I long to fall or rise with those that I love

To my heart I must be true.

And yet, I must wait, the battle must be won.

I hope the cost is not too dear,

or that in the end, I have suffered for naught.

Restlessness

I’ve Always walked my road alone, none other walks my way.

I step and slog, and run and trod, along this barren way.

The reason for this journey I have not yet divined,

But as God leads, and as He creeds, I walk the path that’s mine.

These hands were made to serve the Lord, and cater to the ones

Placed in the path I do now tread, the path I do now run.

I walk this path and serve the mass in any way I can,

But though I’m strong, I falter some in this forsaken land.

The Prophet’s Cry I cry aloud “Oh Lord, must it be me?”

But he reminds me of his love, the love that set me free.

I walk, I slog, I trot, I tread, upon the Journey long,

I cannot help but ask of him direction in the throng.

I walk my way, and do his will, and fellowship with him,

And He relieves and strengthens me, and forgets my every sin.

Yet though the Lord be ever there, so lonely I still am.

For though I am his servant, am I not a mortal man?

God spoke himself, “no good is it, for man to be alone.

I’ll fashion him a helper, someone of his very own.”

On that great and historic day that creation finalized,

God’s greatest work was shown to man, with large and awe-struck eyes.

 My God, you said that you intend to bless,

Prosper, keep and never harm with your divine caress.

Please hear my plea—attend my soul;

Cure my heart from restlessness.

Fly with Me

Like a young eagle or fledgling hawk,

I beat my wings and try to fly;

Though they long ago were clipped,

And peril warns me that I’ll die.

My feathers, they have all grown back—

A new hope burns down deep inside;

Over edge of cliff I plunge,

And shout aloud a battle cry!

Seeking for that place to soar;

Thermal layer, high above.

Gliding in the winds of grace,

Soaring on God’s wings of love.

Would you, dare you, beat yours too?

Would you, dare you, fly with me?

Your wings, you’ve had them all along,

And God can mend them beautifully.

Abandon fears, give way your doubts;

The spirit leads us ever on.

Join me in the morning sky,

And fly unto the rising sun.

Would you, dare you, beat yours too?

Would you, dare you, fly with me?

A Psalm in times of need

Must my heart be broken and fallen from its perch

Before You will move, Oh Lord?

Must I be beyond tears and moved with all sorrow

Before You raise Your mighty hand to act?

You know how I love You, Oh Lord; how I have lived and longed

Your precepts to follow.

My Lord, look around me at the devastation in my path,

Pay heed unto those in need around me.

My will is powerless, my strength has gone.

I do not even rise or desire to eat—my stomach turns itself within me!

My heart has failed for weakness and despair.

You are the Lord! Come to my rescue!

From whence does my salvation come?

It comes from the Lord, Who has seen my noble service;

He rescues me from the Pit, from Sheol’s  very mouth,

He sees those needs around me and brings forth His redemption.

Faithful, true, mighty to save, my God is able to deliver me.

His breath will blow down the doors before us,

And no man may shut them again.

Oh, who may move before the Holy one of Isreal?

The Poet's Soul

From beauty and pain it’s often born;

With those that laugh, with those that mourn.

It builds deep within the chest,

And makes the soul feel quite restless.

Though you mock the pain and sorrow,

Or sentiment at beauty great,

Still he writes upon the morrow,

And longings of his soul does sate.

Long it’s been that I have kept,

The reflections deep inside of me.

I did not speak a single word,

For fear of other’s mockery.

But not unlike the prophets old,

It burns harshly, deeply, down within.

My shell does crack, and out it comes,

Though I have fought to keep it in.

A portrait on a landscape fair,

A thought bestirred in morning air,

A feeling one cannot describe,

A song that’s sung, quite deep inside.

A curse, or a gift, is the question I pose;

For often times it seems as both.

The glass, it is neither half-empty or full;

The range of emotion makes one feel as a fool.

But blessing or curse, it matters not which,

For to some it’s a struggle a whole life to spend.

Of Courage and Laughter, and Sadness, and Pain;

These things are what the Soul of a Poet is made.