Within the fields of man's critique I plant:
a crop of words for all the world to view.
I cherish each remark - each praise or rant-
for thus I know my thoughts were read by you.
The message which I scribe is not my own;
‘twas sent so all mankind may come to know.
This gospel through the seeds of ink is sown
from field to field with hope that it might grow.
Two-thousand years have come to pass and yet,
the muse still quickens writers' souls to spread-
what earth's vain powers can't force man to forget:
the quill proclaims, "Christ really isn't dead"!
Ron Baron