"A day will come," the prophet said,
"when he shall save the land
from jeopardy upon her laid."
Begotten and firstborn, my son!
Blessed of Aslan, and so soon,
blessed in advance for your great day
of that battle and its songs.
"Bestir thyself, o king, awake!
A traitor in our midst!"
A thief, a spy, and thief once more –
the gold, forget; the secrets, mend;
but, Lion Good, make swift my chase
and please my son to me restore
without battle ere day's done!
"To sail and oar, take to the sea!
Pursue both day and night
until we board that brigand ship!
Step light upon the rolling waves,
dance with skill the clashing blades."
By sun and stars was lit
the battle for my son.
Then upon the gall'on boarded,
searched we both high and low
and questioned every mother's son,
but we found not my heir and joy.
"Cast off this morn, the prince and knight."
No hope had I. Not one.
The battle, won; my son, gone.
Like son the father near as lost:
what grief, what pain was mine!
Not I alone; his mother too,
and his twin without a brother.
Mourning, sorrow, my own to bear;
theirs to comfort and soothe.
A battle in my heart.
But comfort came from she to me:
"The promise has been made.
Be not dismayed, do not despair:
we'll see him yet in Aslan's time.
His word is true and faithful still;
Upon Him cast your care."
Yet the battle waged on.
Then council from the hermit spoke:
"'Tis not mine, and no more 'tis yours
to know before our time.
'Tis rather ours to wait and trust
the Lion's will shall come to pass."
With root of faith, and hope, vine,
the battlefield was sown.
So through those years both short and long,
in hope and peace we learned to live.
One son alone we raised
with all the love our hearts could give —
I twice as much when Mother died,
twice again for the other prayed.
I fought the battle long.
Time heals all wounds, so it is said –
and so it does, but more does this:
to release to the King
your way, your will, your heart, your all:
for He will lead; your path direct.
Behind my captain trailing,
the battle grew less strong.
But hark! this boy that calls my name!
My son in rags — nay, not my son,
though like unto him in face.
With his lips, he named me only king,
and warned me of approaching doom:
"Defend, o king, make haste!
The battle comes: ride on!"
A thought, a hope, and questions then —
but duty first: a race to defend —
the boy was lost again.
Disheart, despair not mine to be.
Hold fast. Be strong. On guard. Look up!
Deliverance comes when
the battle's not my own.
What joy, what restoration mine!
How wonderful the Lion's way
unfurled now before me.
Evil intent, He worked for good;
each step unto His sovereign will.
Looking back, I now see
to Him the battle belonged.
Prompt: Battle
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