No longer the knight,
you are among the wounded,
blood shed and dried,
armor off, vulnerable,
armed with a new strength,
knowing you will survive the stray arrows
that still fly.
You hear angels,
far more raucous than you would have imagined them,
their hymns more something out of a Memphis bar
than the churches you grew up in.
A real kind of music, sacred in its understanding
of broken hearts and spirits.
This, you say to yourself,
is a God you can believe in,
and you wonder why he is preached less
than the medieval icons you were raised to worship.
He settles with you in the mud of the battlefield,
his robes dirty, his soul bright with healing,
you wait together
for whatever comes.
About this poem
At some point in my life, I felt that my failures would crush me. They have not. I wish I could claim to be so resilient, but I am not. I do, however, have a God who holds me up when I fail.
I keep him busy.