The Road Grazed in Butler's Field

In Butler's field, where crowds had come to stand,

A summer rally stretched beneath the sky,

The air was thick with cheers and waving hands,

And words of promise echoed far and wide.

The speaker rose, his voice a steady fire,

Defying winds that whispered doubt and fear,

When sudden crack—a shot from hidden spire—

Cut through the blue, and fate hung crystal clear.

He turned his head, a graze upon his ear,

The blood a streak like autumn's falling leaf,

Yet stood he firm, no trembling, no retreat,

As if some ancient strength had steeled his grief.

Blessed be the Lord, my rock, Who trains my hands for war, and my fingers for battle,

He might have thought, or heaven's echo called,

From Psalm's old page, where warriors find their mettle,

In trials forged, where lesser men have stalled.

The secret service swarmed like shadows deep,

The shooter felled upon a distant roof,

While in the chaos, one man's will to keep

The path ahead, unyielding, bullet-proof.

Two roads diverged that day in Butler's glen,

One led to darkness, cold and unforeseen,

The other to a dawn where hope begins—

He took the one less traveled, fierce and keen.

And miles to go before the final sleep,

With promises to keep, and miles to go,

In fields of fate where reapers sometimes reap,

But mercy spares the seed that still must grow.

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~An Ode to President Trump, by George

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"Blessed be the Lord, my ROCK, Who trains my hands for WAR, and my fingers for BATTLE"—Psalm 144:1.