We all are warriors with sin. Crusading knights,
we come to earth
With spotless plumes and shining shields to joust
with foes and prove our worth.
The world is but a battlefield where strong and
weak men fill the lists,
And some make war with humble prayers, and
some with swords and some with fists.
And some for pleasure or for peace forsake their
purposes and goals
And barter for the scarlet joys of ease and pomp,
their knightly souls.
We're all enlisted soldiers here, in service for
the term called life
And each of us in some grim way must bear his
portion of the strife.
Temptations everywhere assail. Men do not rise
by fearing sin,
Nor he who keeps within his tent, unharmed,
unscratched, the crown shall win.
When wrongs are trampling mortals down and
rank injustice stalks about,
Real manhood to the battle flies, and dies or puts
the foes to rout.
'Tis not the new and shining blade that marks
the soldier of the field,
His glory is his broken sword, his pride the
scars upon his shield;
The crimson stains that sin has left upon his
soul are tongues that speak
The victory of new found strength by one who
yesterday was weak.
And meaningless the spotless plume, the shining
blade that goes through life
And quits this naming battlefield without one
evidence of strife.
We all are warriors with sin, we all are knights
in life's crusades,
And with some form of tyranny, we're sent to
earth to measure blades.
The courage of the soul must gleam in conflict
with some fearful foe,
No man was ever born to life its luxuries alone
to know.
And he who brothers with a sin to keep his outward
garb unsoiled
And fears to battle with a wrong, shall find his
soul decayed and spoiled.
