Brothers and sisters raise your pencils!
when I am broken down and wounded
I go to my hiding place . . .
In outer space, my resting place
that provides me protection
. . . encouraged by angels
. . . I lay my burdens down
deep in my spirit
the angels gives me strength
Healed and ready
I raise my sword to fight again . . .
Out on the battlefield
I raise my sword of faith
The pen is my sharpened sword
and the paper is my shield
. . . and I am never going to give up
even when I lose my last drop of blood
I know, there is still hope . . .
Poetry by Dan Cederholm
Read 707 times
Written on 2006-12-06 at 22:49
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text
|
Christoffer Waye |
