Called servants* of God
Labouring with His nod!
Illumined with heavenly vision
They show Christ’s compassion!
Dedicated midst problems’ hardship
Faithful in their stewardship!
Godly along faith-rays
They win souls always!
Cooperative in their ministries
Soldiers vanquishing evil infantries!
Indeed committed to serve
From worldliness they swerve!
Exalting the Lord’s name
They follow Scriptures’ flame!
*Ephesians 6:6 “Not with eyeservice, as menpleasers; but as the servants of Christ, doing the will of God from the heart.”
Eight-Word Couplet
December 13, 2018
Trepidation explodes into volcanic fear
Takes off like wild fire burnt alive
Rolls molten lava down the mountain
Butters the melted soul to silence
Over run by soldiers out of control
The covered dead fill in the valley
Infantries spread to an infinity of hills
A vacated image of a soldier in a mirror
Once a spy or simply a humble man
An ego reflected in repose in melancholy
The war grows with the dead
Executed by the military code
Antagonisms exaggerated calm
Line up the men one by one
Place a cannon ball square right there ready
Aim steady through the eyes between the ears
Give a cigarette if they desire
Fire!
The gleaming warriors of Light advance
Aflame with Life, their shields aglow with gold
And lambent fire a glint from sword and lance.
Their silver battle-axes flash and flourish, bold
And brutal in mad massacre. The hordes
Of Death are falling, black-plumed helmets split
As skulls within explode. The scything swords
Have fringed the banners with each rending slit.
Death’s men have floundered, failed,
Skewered by the jeweled lance that spears the brain,
And reeves the heart, weak-shielded and ill-mailed…
Infantries of Death are cruelly slain.
The battlefield’s now sodden with the gore
Of ebon warriors. Onyx helmets lie
Trampled, some with heads within, before
The gilded hooves that clatter, sanguine, by.
Death’s flag with bone-white-face
Is rags. His ink-hued armor plate is rent
And shattered by Life’s spike-thorn mace.
Death’s sword is sundered and his pike staff bent.
And he himself lies maimed upon the moistened sand,
His cypress standard in his gnarling hand
Till tired black fingers spread…and let it fall.