I cannot make you win the war.

I will not pick up your sword and fight for you.

I cannot abhor the blood shed for us both.

I have not the strength to carry all.

My body has been mauled by living corpses and dead ones alike.

The spikes have been driven into me in sadistic rhythm

And by the grace of God the schism of self and selfless have only grown farther apart.

This charge I give to you:

That you forge though the briars, a burning flame, the consuming fire.

The mighty hand of God on this lonely sod,

That all might will proclaim, and every tongue profess the name

Of our lord on bended knee.

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