The King on the Field

Battlefield, in dimming light,

Where Death’s angel wields his scythe

‘Mid the fallen soldiers bold;

Now their souls afar do go.


Gazing o’er the field of war,

Knowing what had been in store,

Rides the monarch, grand and tall

Who destroyed the enemy thrall.


Heavy weighs the toll of death

‘Pon his weary, crown-ed head;

Battle won, but war goes on,

’Til the fading of the sun.


Through the somber camp he rides

With a sure, courageous stride,

Greeting wounded, battered men,

Willing them to hope again.


Such strong kings are rare to find;

Royalty is often blind

When the fighting men have won

Battlefields, yet their strength is done.

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