Faith isn’t a fortress—it’s the flag I wave
while bloodied, kneeling in the trench.
Every “Why?” a ragged breath,
every “Still I trust” the anthem.
The devil whispers “Retreat” like wind through barbed wire,
but You shout louder:
“The ground you’re kneeling on is holy.
Even your blistered ‘Amen’
is a war cry in My ears.”
So here I plant my knees—
not on marble, but mud.
Here I raise my hands—
not in triumph, but surrender.
The hallelujahs taste like copper,
but I sing them anyway.
For You never promised a shield from the fight,
only that the field is already won.
