It was not really a picnic.
The odor was in the air.
Tomorrow the battle.
Time for a song and prayer.
Standing before his lonely tent.
Cleaning his gun and silver bayonet.
Powder was counted, making a full load.
A letter home, sewing name on his chest.
Lest a bullet fell, him, with no place of rest.
Silent determination, of a cause far away.
Knowing God was working his fate.
2007 from 8Hop.com