Lukewarm

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Lukewarm

Post  Irv Everett on Fri 18 Jan 2008, 4:03 pm

Lukewarm


Propped in the corner; dust covers his sword.
Wary from the battle; he doesn’t fight any more.

His helmet now is a rusty planter, sitting in the hall.
His shield is covered with cobwebs, hanging on the wall.

He is no longer shod, barefoot, he grew faint.
And the leather straps have rotted, off his breastplate.

He has forgotten, his brethren, holding the front line.
He has closed his eyes, pretending things are fine.

What a waste of God’s armor; the battle he did flee.
No need to gird his loins, idleness abounds in thee.

He rationalizes his reluctance; saying it’ll do no harm.
What a shame to run from the battle, a shame to be lukewarm.

But here he sits every Sunday, in the comfort of his pew.
Pretending, as souls are lost; he has nothing to do.

Irv Everett
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