‘Stealthy the hunter who slays his own fear’

On this hill I make my stand
Here I prepare to fight.
Below me lies embattled land
Above, the wounded light.
My foes are ranged about me
Guilt, and silence, and fear.
Selfishness and apathy
Surround me finally here.
But on this hill I stand today
No more heart to run.
And on this ground I mean to stay
Till this war is done.
For Death is not a foe, a taker of life:
Death is that comfort that wishes away strife.

Nobody wants a hero’s death.
It’s not the peace we crave.
Could one not do without
A limb or two in
The service of who
We save.
Is not another battle just
Another line in the sand?
Why must this be
The final hill
On which I make my stand.