Swords are ringing. Soul—like stone unmoved. Spirit cringed, a bird with broken wing. Yet stubborn "I," grown strong with years, Wages war—persistent, bold and fierce. Tactics and cunning do not fail it. Through greater battles it has triumphed! By force of will the sharpened blade Has torn from soul many a time. And though from wounds the heart grew hard, Scarred over with unfeeling scar, The spirit died, wounded in its core By longings wandering astray. I go to battle. In my chest eternity dies. My essence cries: "I will prevail! I can!" I gaze into my adversary's eyes— Is it You? Could it be You, my God?! Swords are ringing. Soul burns bright with fire. Immovable fortresses crumble down. God fights against me fighting for me, With His own sword He heals my soul. With His own fire He cures old wounds, Pours into my spirit—precious Myrrh most dear. And the soul that crawls out from the abyss He greets most gloriously, as a conqueror.
