The Die is Cast

Continuing with our lead up to the country’s 230th Birthday, I wanted to post something that would set the mood for the upcoming celebration. A more serious post than usual, but I thought today would be better for that, so I can go back to being be my inane self on Friday. Ladies and Gentlemen:

The Voice of the Revolution

Richmond’s streets were cold and bare
But signs of Spring were in the air.

Like Christians from the Catacombs
Patriots stole past Tory homes.

To St. John’s Church in stealth they came
Risking death and a traitor’s name.

Once safe inside they paused to pray
That freedom’s torch would light their way.

The roll was called, the minutes read
Approved and entered as were said.

Each cautious vote was meekly cast
When Patrick Henry stood at last.

Then like a monk before his God
His voice in measured cadence trod.

The oak floor shook beneath his rage
The Bible trembled page by page.

He crossed his wrists, despair implied
“Our chains are forged”, he harshly cried.

He spoke of liberty and death
And murmurs rose with every breath.

Then undismayed by thoughts of fear
The Yankee crowd began to cheer.

The shouts burst forth like tamarind
And Henry’s words were on the wind…

In Williamsburg, where all was still
Lord Dunmore felt a sudden chill.

He shuddered as he stirred the fire,
And saw a raging fun’ral pyre.

A musket shot, a distant bell,
And muffled hoof beats broke the spell.

Reluctantly, he grabbed his sword,
And took his pistol from the board.

Sadly, he knew, but could not say,
That England’s fate was sealed that day. © 1981


I like this poem quite a bit because it helps me to visualize Patrick Henry in his raging oratorical glory, but mainly I like it because my Dad wrote it. It appeared in his final book of poetry, “Credo”.

And with that, I give you, Our Moment of Hinn:

“I feel terrible that I once put too much emphasis on material property.”
--Benny Hinn (Ed. Note: once?)