As I take up my pen to write,
The state of the world in which I must live,
I know not what is wrong or right,
So I pray you all my thoughts forgive.

For when I think of Joan of Arc,
Who selflessly gave to flames of fire.
I feel her heart beat and the spark,
As I gaze upon her funeral pyre.

Yet when I think of Kipling’s son,
Who was sacrificed in blood and mud,
I feel, when Kipling’s work is done,
I should like to sing of Spring’s promised bud.

For in that conflict far away,
Like so many others of that time and age,
I count the many nights and days,
My actions and my conscience to assuage.

And like Gandhi in his loin cloth,
Dressed as a ‘coolie’ in old Indian style,
Whose quiet demeanour calmed Imperial wroth,
I thank my God for his life worth-while.

He took the kicks, accepted blows,
Yet spoke no curse or unkind word,
Even when his pure blood did flow,
Was e’er complaint or protest heard.

As he placed himself at the front,
He gave no thought for his frail frame.
And always first to bear the brunt,
His last words were God’s great name.

And another, dare I recall?
The heartless promise of his oratory,
That held a nation all enthralled,
Yet concealed his plans of death and glory.

His hideous night of long knives,
And the Kristallnacht, we did not heed.
He took so many innocent lives,
Sense and compassion we did secede.

And as Lincoln stood, sure and tall,
With blacks and whites all around.
He so touched our hearts and us all,
His freedom words did all surround.

Now thoughts fall on two thousand years,
What lessons have we learned from one man’s death?
He took away our every fear,
Redeemed our sins with truth in every breath.

Even now his words resonate.
With every generation through the years,
Our inner turmoil He abates,
And makes confusion disappear.

The promise of His covenant,
Bought with blood upon the Cross,
His resurrection, revenant,
Our eternal gains through His loss.

Why give Himself to darkest Hell?
Why come to earth and agony?
Why die for us? – Pray who can tell?
That we might live eternally?


So down I lay my pen again,
I sit and reflect upon my sins.
And like great leaders of all men,
I must pray to God, to be like Him.