Michael stands in the rain, as drops fall from his brow to the ground,
He waits patiently, his steel grey eyes surveying his battlefield,
It is a strange one, strewn with grass and flowers and many a mound,
And rank and file of stones each entreating that He should yield.
Scattered here and there, his kinfolk stand, but none as Michael.
He is the soldier, with breastplate and shield, and sword by his side,
Not drawn since he came to be here; he stands as a stoic sentinel,
Patient, benevolent, the fire in his spirit not worn with boastful pride.
Michael stands in the rain, as he has stood in the blistering Sun,
And when stars wheel above him; when snow coated, but not numb,
Rather with exultant wings renewed, he stands vigilant for the One.
Waiting for his ancient foe, the firstborn seraph, who does not come.