By Mark
Bishop
My enemy advances
with spears and firebrands
toward banner proud
made low upon the hill on
which it stands
This golden standard I've
raised myself
will not last through the
fray
It's hacked to pieces by
the horde
on this my strength's last
day
Though the army marches
onward
o'er the torn flag of my
soul
you claim as yours this
tattered heart
you wash it white and make
it whole