He stands at the front of the battle line,
Alone, when all others have fled.
Frost forms in the fox holes at night:
The true hero’s cold, awful bed.
Darkness continues to engulf the field,
Accompanied by firework light.
In the trenches, there’s no coffee or tea.
The true hero’s rest is not kind.
Stars look down on the sadness and fright
In every soldier’s own heart.
Their spirits are weary of the terrible fights;
The true hero’s hope is a spark.
In the shadows, the moon sheds the twitterlight
For all to see only smoke.
Fires burn across the ground and the sky;
The true hero’s tears only choke.
Dawn of the day begins with the shouts
Of guns, tanks, bombs, and war.
There is no peace in battlefield sounds;
The true hero’s peace is yours.
Sorrow of sorrows! Agony so ripe!
The loss of a comrade, dear.
No greater love than to lay down his life:
The true hero’s motive is clear.
Soldiers in pain, their fears never end;
They look to the hero to unite.
But on who does the hero truly depend?
The true hero’s sight is on Christ.