The Pen

They say the pen is more deadly than the blade
I take my pen outside and dance in the power I enslaved
The humble trees and forest plants kneel
As I pass by and see they aren’t kneeling to me, I reel

I ride my pen to the dark side of mars
The spotless dust—red as rust—dances and wars
My happy pen runs out of all its ink
I sink into the mire and now climb a spire just to blink

I put my pen back on the shelf and sigh a laugh complacent
What a wasted way to live and wasted way to make it
Then in the sound booth near the hall I cackle and sit crying
Lying heart that so hates dying screaming that I stop my sighing

God of wonder and, as they say, the author of life
Strife enslaves this pen of stone that dare not suffice
Do you see the pride inside this body of death?
I guess you do, since You sent Your Son to lay it rest

Oh, mighty pen, you’re worthless to me now
For I forget how to write more poetry anyhow
Am I too a pen, inside the Master’s hand?
No more a cancer, in You alone I wish to stand

Strip away the Self and surface; no more may my heart bleed ink.
Dead is Self.
To live is Christ—Him living in me—and to die is a mighty prize.

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