The sky darkens around her,
Lightning flickers like fireworks all over her,
Thunder snarls and it pours,
Evil exudes from its creeks,
She stands. She is not moved.
A thousand fall to her left,
Ten thousand to her right,
Her enemies advance on her like a baleful gale,
They close up on her like a whirlwind,
She stands. She is not moved.
Kings rush by her, they falter and stumble,
Adversity is on their heels, and they flee,
But she stares it in the face,
Her hands crossed on her chest,
Her legs pinned like a medieval soldier on guard,
She stands. She is not moved.
All folks are puzzled, no one understands,
They ask, “What is her countenance?”
What is her consistency”?
“How can she stand when all else stumble?”
“How can she prevail when all else fail?”
Alas, she smiles, and opens her mouth to speak,
Silence fills the air, veneration reigns,
All ears clutched towards her,
Mouths open in amazement,
“He who is in me is greater than he who is in the world.”
She speaks at long last,
“On His account, I stand. I cannot be moved”
© Copyright 2005, Kenneth Acha
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