In Flanders Fields

When I think about Independence Day and the meaning it holds for me, it settles weightily upon my mind like anything worth having. The irony of it. Loss and gain. Joy and sorrow. Liberty and death. Glorious freedom!  The willingness of families to sacrifice.  Men, women and children.

Sacrifice.  The eternal principle of sacrifice.  It seems that one must ultimately give up something good, in order to have something better.   Even the Lord himself sacrificed His perfect son so that ALL of His imperfect children could return to Him.  As in the spiritual sense of testing, proving and assisting in coming unto Christ–even unto death, so the people of this great nation were tested and proved in obtaining the freedoms they believed in–even unto death.

I am ever grateful for their integrity.

Photo by Robert A. Stanford

In Flanders Fields, by John McCrae

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie,
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

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