Where is my sword?

The tears of angels, falling down.
The blood of men upon the ground.
A broken spear, a battered shield.
The arms that none again shall wield.
Bloody bodies on the ground,
The birds above the only sound.
The prayers of men no longer heard.
Their rest forever now ensured.

Where are the soldiers?
Where are the drums of war?
Why do the stocks lay drying on the threshing floor?
Where are the souls who once stood tall?
Is there any one left who will risk it all?
Have the mighty men of old, been replaced by prodigal sons?
Have spineless cowards, replaced men with guns?
Instead of defending our homes, we give them away.
Instead of fighting our enemy we ask him to stay.

And what am I?
Where is my sword? Where is my shield?
I’ve almost forgotten what it feels like to wield them in battle.
To care so much you’d risk it all; when did I fall?
When did I trade sweat, for sweet perfume?
When did I trade my tent for a furnished room?
When did I start taking baths instead of taking orders?
When did I start breaking bread instead of breaking borders?

When did I trade my armor, for a suit and a hat?
When did I start kissing babies instead of kicking ass?
When did I stop talking like that?
Trading the pointed words of a hardened soldier,
For the sweet scented lips of a politician.
When did I start caring more about ribbons, and titles and the honor of men?
Then for the job at hand, the chain of command?
Why did I sit, when I was told to stand?

Where are the soldiers?
Where are my brothers to whom I swore an oath?
They fight alone while I sit and loaf.
Where are the soldiers, and where am I?
How can I live? And watch them die?
Where is my God, and where is my king?
Where is the hope to which I cling.
Where is my sword, and where is my shield?
Do I still have the strength them both to yield?

The Chosen

The sky darkens,
The pace quickens
Time draws ever near
A million tiny souls crying out in fear.

Blood upon the doorposts
Yeast within a jar
The shadow in the doorway
Was ordered from afar

The desert lies before us
The brickpits lay behind
Before us lies our freedom
By heaven's own design

To bad we'll keep on wandering
For we can't seem to obey
Yet still we are God's chosen
And we'll get it right someday.

A sword for Gideon

Beating grain on the threshing floor.
Eyes watching the open door.
Fear beats in my breast
Afraid to live like this,
Afraid to die like the rest.
Afraid of the armies which ravage the land.
Afraid of family and friends,
Afraid the voice I heard last night, maybe it wasn’t right.
Do I have the guts to break the idols of those in power?
Or will I cower,
In darkened corners of darkened caves.
A life that’s dead for all my days.
Will I stand, with sword in hand?
A soldier for God,
Against the vast armies of man?
Will I die?
Or become a slave under the devil’s hand?
Or will I stand?
Yet is this living?
Maybe I’m already dead,
And my body just hasn’t heard yet from my head.
I beat grain in darkened caves,
Watching my time pass away.
While others posses my land,
Wringing it dry with grasping hands.
Picking fruit from my own trees,
Eating honey made by my own bees.
Yet I’m still here shivering in the shadows of my uncertainty.
Wondering what is meant to be,
He said to have faith, to take a stand.
He’s words brought life to my inner-man.
Do I dare to try? Or let it die like all the others?
Do I follow a sign or follow my brothers?
Do I stand? In a land long lost to foreign devils?
Or accept that this is how things are meant to be?
Do I stand and draw my sword, or keep on living on bended knee?
I’ve called out so many times, to empty skies.
Hoping God above would here my plea.
Then when I saw a sign, I said “how can it be me?”
Maybe all the prayer and prostration, has made us a weak nation.
Because we spent so long waiting for an answer we forgot to how to act.
So busy asking “when” we missed the call to attack.
Are the flags waving? The musicians playing?
Is this the time? The task mine?
Is this the command?
“Stand up!”
“Get off your butt,”
“take back the land.”