The Faith of General Washinton

We got a lot of snow this week. The temperature was blistering cold, the wind like tiny needles on the skin. I was reminded of a poem I wrote last year. At the time, I was watching the country I loved so dearly circle the drain. Reaching out for some kind of hope, I grasped onto the image of George Washington praying at Valley Forge. There's no definitive proof he did such a thing, but belief without proof, that's faith. I believe in the strength of the American people. I believe we can make it through anything because, frankly, we've made it through before.

The Faith of General Washington
copyright 2009, x_1013_x
Through fearful passing of day and night
The winter snows and icy death
A weary army prepared to fight
For the fire of freedom’s breath.

At Long Island, they’d fallen hard,
A defeat at Brandywine,
Germantown had left them scarred,
But White Marsh held the line.

The season’s change delayed the war,
With rain and biting wind,
They huddled on the valley floor,
As food and spirit thinned.

His men were hungry, tired, and ill,
Their fortitude was weak,
He woke each day with hope and still,
The coming spring looked bleak.

Riding slowly through the slush,
The chill breeze burned his face,
A clearing shone beyond the brush,
It seemed a peaceful place.

He stopped his horse in virgin snow,
Removed his hat and sword
Knees on the ground, his head bent low,
He addressed his saving Lord.

“Bring me will, but spare me pride,
Make my spirit strong.”
“Give Your peace to those who died,
So we could fight this long.”

“Show Your path, so I may lead,
The souls who trust Your hand,
To stay the flows when they bleed,
And guide them when they stand.”

“Grant us Your mercy, ease our fear,
Warm us with the sun,
Bring our ultimate victory near,
With every battle won.”

Hear the cries of Your servants bold,
See us to the dawn of day.
Through sleepless nights, dark and cold.
In your name, I pray.”

On his feet, he scanned the sky,
His eyes on the Valley camp.
As gentle snowflakes began to fly,
A watchman lit a lamp.

At first, in the fog, the light was lame,
but as others blazed, it grew.
From a tiny spark to a roaring flame,
The light of the faithful true.

The army served him in battle’s ring
To revolution’s drum,
And he trusted hope to a heavenly king,
For a freedom yet to come.