These
soldiers march and chant with suffering,
"One
two, one two, left right, left right—press on."
These
failures' feet are barely lingering,
As grounds
give way and victories are gone.
Their faces
wear a weary look of woe.
They tell a
story worth the listening:
"Man's
grades are sure one formidable foe;
Be careful
lest they be your everything."
But when
these soldiers touch their sacred land,
Their dear
Commander runs to have them blessed.
He speaks as
He holds each hand in His hand,
"You've
tried your best—well done. Now come and rest."
I sit in empty rooms with none but
Him
And watch as my desire for good
grades dim.
