The following is one of my favorite poems, and it’s dedicated to all you dear Christian soldiers out there who will be teaching or preaching or singing or serving in some way in your church tomorrow.

I have heard a lot of people talking about the sad state of Christianity today: no interest, no commitment, attendance down, and I’ve seen some of that myself.  Sometimes it feels like we’re fighting a losing battle, which we all know is not true; but when I heard the statement, “The Light is going out in America,” my heart ached.

Tomorrow, some of you will be teaching little ones a Bible lesson, or you’ll be changing diapers in the nursery.  Some of you cleaned the church this week or ran off the bulletin, or chose and practiced the music.  Some of you dear pastor’s wives have and will cover your man with prayer as he enters the pulpit tomorrow.  So many “opportunities!” However, you may feel like the soldier in the battle – that your “blunt sword” isn’t good enough.  When you look across the street at the flashing neon lights and raucous music that’s drawing the crowd, you look at your flannel board and your tiny room in the corner, and you wonder!

Oh, dear son or daughter of the King – you can seize the day for Christ, not because you carry the best sword but because you ARE a child of the King!!  He sees.  He knows. It’s HIS battle and His power, not yours that will make the difference! He put you right where He wants you to be to fight His fight! So pick up that “broken sword” and slay the Dragon!


This I beheld, or dreamed it in a dream:—
There spread a cloud of dust along a plain;
And underneath the cloud, or in it, raged
A furious battle, and men yelled, and swords
Shocked upon swords and shields. A prince’s banner
Wavered, then staggered backward, hemmed by foes.
A craven hung along the battle’s edge,
And thought, “Had I a sword of keener steel—
That blue blade that the king’s son bears,— but this
Blunt thing—!” He snapped and flung it from his hand,
And lowering crept away and left the field.
Then came the king’s son, wounded sore bested,
And weaponless, and saw the broken sword
Hilt-buried in the dry and trodden sand,
And ran and snatched it, and with battle-shout
Lifted afresh he hewed his enemy down
And saved a great cause that heroic day.

© Edward Rowland Sill. All rights reserved

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