Face of Glory

For the man on his knees

In the field of battle,

Limbs flailed and uniform torn

Dirty and beyond ragged

Proclaimed a warrior,

And sent off to fight the terror in his heart;

There is honor.

There is honor in his eyes

Outlined with

Thick charcoal lines of his reality,

Like a comic book character.

Honor in those hard lines;

The choking fog of day,

And the confusion

Shining out its beacon of calamity

From those portals of his soul.

In his blood,

Upon his soiled clothing

And the crush of his palms,

There is reality and faith.

Whether it stands or falls;

There is the essence of his triumph,

In the cry of His self.

In his wounds, his fabric, his weapon,

Lye his being, his pride, his will.

He is mankind boiled down and exploited;

Illustrated in the finest of details.

Do you see the honesty in his movement,

The falter of his mind,

The pride of his convictions,

And the virtue of his song?

Do you see his honor

In the tear that streaks his cheek,

Alone on his knees, in battle

Reminding him that he is man,

Free and willful,

Reality pure to the last heartfelt drop of His toil.