In battle, life I give. I slay not whom’s downtrod.
Blood does not soil the blade I wield in righteous cause;
Nor gusts of passion raise a craving for applause.75
A straw I’m not. A mountain am I;—firm, staid, fast.
No whirlwind can remove me with its tearing blast.
’Tis sticks and straws, alone, are driven by the storm.
Their nature is to move;—to every breath conform.
The gust of anger, breath of lust, and blast of greed,—
Each agitates the man not anchored in Truth’s creed.
Firm mountain am I. God it is that firmness gives.