Kreig

The rockets roar, the shells and bombs descend,
I cower in a structure all too frail.
I've had it with this war without an end.
My spirit weeps, my soul begins to fail.

An artificial silence plugs my ears,
I curl beneath a bench, devoid of nerve.
I should have known my peace was in arrears.
I should have kept my bunker in reserve.

For concrete is so mighty, and so strong!
It always kept me safe when bullets flew.
My bunker was my friend, it did no wrong.
Why did I break it down for something new?

But as I start to fall into the brink,
"This battle could be self-induced," I think.

The King

The king came to town on one warm autumn day
And looked for a lodging in which he could stay.
The haughty and proud made many an offer
But his choice, I recall, earned him many a scoffer.

He could have elected to rest in a castle,
Or a fine room all curtained with velvet and tassle,
But he looked all around for the lowliest bed
And finding it, slept there, no pillow for head.

On the morrow he woke and decreed to the city,
"I chose for my friend the man you won't pity.
So to all who would scorn him, remember my visit,
And ask yourselves, what good are lodgings exquisite?"

Then off the king went, and the city was bitter.
So many spurned nobles! And how they did flitter!
But one man was left with a peace so complete
That their anger was sour, so he rose to his feet.

He cried, "Rich men of honour, do not mock his name.
He gave me such treasure, despite all my shame.
O how can it be that the mightiest one
Has made me an heir, and has called me his son?"

The rest of the tale is still yet to be known,
As the flower is hid when the seed is just sown.
For I am that man who was blessed by the king.
And he bid me to offer, to all, the same thing.

Rest

I am a child, alone and afraid
Of worries and woes that around me are laid.
I cry to the heavens, "Oh, why should I bother?"
But comfort comes quick when I'm touched by the Father.

I am a traveller, wearied and worn,
Trapped on a path lined with hatred and scorn.
Pleading for help, as despair starts to smother
But help comes at last in the arms of my Mother.

I am a liar, a scoundrel, a thief.
Ensared by my sin, and a slave to my grief.
Written off by my friends and my foes as a loss,
But salvation is mine by the blood on the cross.

I am at rest, full of hope, full of peace.
He wanted my burden; I wanted release.
Surrounded by love, by joy I'm enticed.
Wrapped up in the arms of my saviour, the Christ.