Thanks For the Flag

Thanks for the flag, saints.
You ran once with Him.
Touched His clothes.
Placed hands of camaraderie
Upon those shoulders.
Saw the lame walk,
The outcast relieved,
The fretful calmed,
The dead raised,
The deaf ears opened.

To His message of love
And of Father's
Constant reaching.
Of the prize in
Absorbing the blow;
Going two miles;
Listening with grace;
Facing the grave.
Proclaiming at hand-off,
'Him, Risen Indeed!'

To other keen runners,
In different times,
In different struggles,
In different climes.
But all with
The Spirit and
Joy reinforced,
To herald the message
And finish their course.
The flag still clean.

And true to its purpose.
No never gone stale,
Nor broken, nor bested,
Nor picayune, nor pale.
Maintaining rich colour,
Its drapery white,
And crimson its message,
'Begone dreadful night
Of death and despairing.
Our Lord makes things right!'

So carry the standard
When passed on to you.
Its olive-wood handle
So straight and so true.
And look for new runners
Who reverence God's Son,
Who range to the by-ways
As you just have done.
Carry it high, saints.
For soon He will come.


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