Each battlefield with highs and lows is known,
Lives saved, lives lost—such fates the heavens weave.
Through time, we’ve raised the names of heroes past,
Their wisdom spread like sparrows taking flight.
Wherever feet may tread, strife paves the way,
While smoke veils paths where hope and fear collide.
This land has borne the wars that shaped our souls,
Scarred since the birth of water, light, and sky.
Each muscle trained to fight or flee the storm,
Like those before, we choose the course we walk.
The marks of those long gone still guide our steps,
Their battles carved within what we become.
Within our hands, we grasp the word of God,
Its polished curves reflect the morning light.
A dome, though battered, guards what would have broke,
Forged in the fire as Christ endured the fast—
Forty days and nights of trial and grace.
Refined in flames, He hung upon the cross,
Not for His sins, but ours—a sacrifice.
The swing of swords resounds with ancient truth,
We cling to faith no larger than a seed.
It gleams before us, sharp as dawn’s first light,
Parrying loss with promises divine.
We tell our loved ones, “We shall meet again,”
As battlefields bear fragments of our youth.
For God so loved the world, He gave His Son.
We live and die with these words in our hearts.
Without His love, the darkness would consume,
But Christ has taught us how to forge our swords.
Through holy words and prophets, shields are shaped—
God’s children, armored in eternal grace.
