In the gleaming sunrise I see the form of a man in the field in the break of morn.
He walks straight and sure with a broad shouldered stride,
The air of royalty, strength, honor he cannot hide.
The silhouette grand,
And in his hand
A glorious sword was raised.
To heaven he praised
For all the world to hear.
The instant the sun came over the hill, I saw his armor solid and shrill.
How frightening he was to the dreaded foe!
How serious, hard, fierce for them to know.
His body is strong.
His journey is long.
Steadfast his belief.
His mission-- relief,
From the Father of Lies.
Never could I feel more safe yet shaken of a knight who’s world forsaken.
No one could be sane to challenge his strength.
His might, his stance, his life appears of endless length.
But when the sun was high
This caught my eye:
What’s this I see?
He drops to his knees?
His greatness is not his own.
“Blessed are the meek: for they shall inherit the earth.” Matthew 5:5 (KJV)
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