I be upon foot now, a soldiery corp of one, sword on one hand and mace upon the other. Striking earthly blows with other worldly strike, where one falls the shadow of death darkens the spot and where the other impales the crimson trail of hell fire spurts it's flame.
Upon my back is my trusty steed, of mail and metal, protector of my blind side. Both tooth and iron hoof place their mark and the foe knows nobly in missing pounds of flesh given or shattered cranium splintered, that the beasts of field, yield no second in the fosse of the battle land.
The work is warm and heavy as nostrils flare of blood and ear drum beats in the tune of groaning life spent. This is not parade nor joust in civilized fight, but fighting to death upon ground so sacred that each inch is the breath of life exhaled by fraction of thrust and percent of parry.
He knows me there, my stud of work, and snorts in rage at those he knows have come too close. With slash and dash he jostles me as my knowing counselor in bloody deeds well done. In times past of excitement, he has marred me, with scars of tooth upon my metal cage. His enthusiasm for me is not much less than his lust for the fight.
I wonder at times in his raring plunge of hooves smashing brain to bits. If he my ride has killed more enemy, than the two arms of hammer and blade of me.
I have pride in him, as he allows no master than me, in friendly camp nor in foreign field. He readily crushes the hand which feeds him as the hand with dagger blade. Yes set his fodder down a cubit from him, and retreat past his tethers of leather. Yes better to rush to the knights blade and face him, than to die from the blow of a horse.
We rode from the mysts in that battle morn time, like a nightmare of awe upon ten thousand thousand. Slowly in dawn shadow and star sunny glint, the spectre of the grim reaper dream. A scythe upon the mind of that lordless host ready to bundle the straw of their nature in beaten flail to thresh the harvest of them.
I was a joy to duel from the box of the knights in battles upon Crusader trail. It was almost too easy to live in that sort. Four knights fighting with four warhorses slashing, ten thousand Mohammedans were in need of one hundred thousand more.
It became so hot, that our piles of trophies became our bulwark in pikes scrambling up it and over to us, to come sliding down in bloody gut sled, to add to our protective bank. Such a sight it was to mount to the summit of it, and continue the fight on our mountain of dead.
To dull ones blade on the wet of bone and to sharpen it's steel to the whet of stone.
To dull ones blade on the wet of bone and to sharpen it's steel to the whet of stone.
He watches over me like God in His Heavens. His crucifix is his bit of iron. He says his grace in prayerful sojourn and sing praises in his armour swung chime.
The wrath of him is poured out to the fields upon which he was born. He is the sonnet of lute song long ago in singing ballads of all our war dead.
I mount him in camp with the sign of the cross, but in battle he mounts calm in a river of curses in serpents tongues. I never have enjoyed battle as much as with him in the poetry of the stanzas of him.
We fight for God in the honor to fight on that rod of ground, chained in ploughed furrows we turn. Sowing there men watered in their own blood, to raise a crop in Christ's Glory of Him.
Long since the dawn of millennium ago, we fought battle of land and shore sea, and bow for the battle to join once again. The rider and ridden in prophetic tomorrow joined plea. The host there assembles before as in yore, for that battle of Armageddon.
agtG
