The waters of friendship

On the river, I found peace,
Sun soaking into skin so deeply
My heart is filled with joy again
To do the thing I missed so neatly

With every stroke my muscles swell
And speed my way down channels there
The eagle and the moose agree
That forests, they are all quite fair

Jumping in, I dive and swim
Emerging river-drenched and cold
Not merely soaking skin and clothes,
But shooting to my very soul

How long have I, so battle-scarred,
Been parched so that I knew it not?
My soul I thought was still yet damp
But now I know that it was not.

So dry! So hard! So worn and shattered!
Yet there is grace to be found in those waters,
Not simply those of the raging river,
But in the healing waters of friendship.

Nothing else really matters

Hear me, All-Father!
Lend your ear to the voice of this,
Your meanest son, and lowest servant.

I have endured the trials,
I have Striven and fought and bled.
the battle seemed won at last.

Yet in the end, I lay broken
In the rubble and confusion,
Failing my Lord, and His commands.

I've failed with all I've set my hand.
My life is as ashes in the pit,
Coals extinguished and growing cold.

no matter in my life unscathed,
All is mired in the muck and slog
Grasping me with iron claws.

The monsters all I've slain
To be bitten by the snake,
gliding angrily about my heals.

If victory is beyond my grasp, then grant at least
An honorable death, that I might dine within your hall
And with your Mighty Heroes dwell.

And yet, my hope is not in me,
It springs from something deep,
From a source that cannot be measured

A spring that overflows it's banks,
Your love overwhelms my heart and life;
Bringing me to faith and Granting me strength.

At last I know, despite my worth--So little in worldly view--
that value in your eyes I've found.
And nothing else really matters.

The Katana

The broken sword has been reforged—a thing of beauty, found quite rare.

The Master’s hand and will accord; endow a change beyond compare.

No sharper blade on earth is found, than one made right by His own hand.

Though chosen, many can't account for time spent here, within this land.

Steel is folded into steel, two hundred times and maybe more.

One for every tear that’s shed; aye, even one for every score.

High carbon fuses into low; strength itself is tempered to

Stand resilient—nay, unbreakable—a mighty work to try to do.

Will a smith make new from what is old? A work of art will he complete?

Yet that He’s done and even more, from Broadsword laid down at His feet.

And when at last the soul is quenched, that gentle curve will show His pride;

He made a thing of honor still, from what the world had cast aside.

Then He makes it so it shines, flashing white with midday sun.

And even in the dim starlight, the world will see what He has done.

Twice born, twice tested, thrice fired and quenched.

For once it was not found wanting, for it was good to Him.