Crimson streams

What sword can match the restless pen,
that plunders evil's darkest den?
It steals and quells the blackest lies,
and in the detail flaws espies.

How many empires swords have built,
until the towers have turned to silt,
And yet their poets walls inscribed,
as histr'y's folly fate prescribed.

Time's pen has written life and death,
recorded how Christ drew life's breath.
Oh yes, the pen rephrased sword's wrath,
and scribed the sword's last fatal gaff.

The sword has never brought new life,
it's only kin, the blood-soaked knife.
For I have read of crimson streams,
that's etched upon eternal dreams.

To me the pen became a sword,
that cleaves the soul, plays Spirit's chord.
I have a gift to wield the pen,
to write the songs and sing truth's ken.

R.Owen.