Waves crash at her feet
as the fog gathers round,
whispy at first
but waxing thick.
A chill creeps down her spine
as she looks out o'er
restless sea and blanketed night.
Though storm she knows
draws near,
she finds herself unmoving,
only slightly afraid
of the immeasurable approaching force.
But upon the rock she stands...
tall and firm...
A warrior of satin heart
a silver tree in a gulf of black--
a sparkling soul
captained only by her Christ.
She stands alone,
unmoved, ready for the dark...
ready to weather
the war of Saturday.
Jul 4, 2010
Jul 4, 2010 at 10:19 AM UTC
Waves crash at her feet
as the fog gathers round,
whispy at first
but waxing thick.
A chill creeps down her spine
as she looks out o'er
restless sea and blanketed night.
Though storm she knows
draws near,
she finds herself unmoving,
only slightly afraid
of the immeasurable approaching force.
But upon the rock she stands...
tall and firm...
A warrior of satin heart
a silver tree in a gulf of black--
a sparkling soul
captained only by her Christ.
She stands alone,
unmoved, ready for the dark...
ready to weather
the war of Saturday.
We all face our storms, but as fierce as they may come, if only we stand upon solid ground and ready ourselves for whatever comes, then we'll get through it. The term "saturday" in the poem refers to the character's last battle.