My dull sword clings to scabbard,
Like a timid serpent without fangs
That hides in holes, conflict to eschew.
My battered shield drags its point
Along the ground from heavy arm,
Fatigued from blocking blows of disbelief.
My breastplate bears dents so deep,
An inchoate metal it does appear,
And these from strikes of my own vice.
My belt slips from a slender waist,
Housing a growl for sustenance,
So hungry for truth am I.
My helmet, donned so long ago,
Seems not to grow with a mind,
So full of sinful thoughts.
Refit me, Lord, with armor new,
Strengthen, Lord, my weak sinews,
Arm me, Lord, to fight with you,
Triumph, Lord, run evil through.
© 2003 Peter Andrew Nelson
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