A warrior's quiver filled with arrows,
A nuclear river flowing through a barrow.
A courtier of the Father, going in and out of His presence aglow,
Soaring so high above, navigating unhurt through spaces so narrow.
What can I say?
Children are the heritage of the Father,
The apples of His eyes — they are called by their Maker.
"Let them come to me," He said, drawing them closer,
Closer and closer, till they became His courier.
Planted like olive shoots around the table,
Nurtured with wisdom, strong and stable.
Voices like trumpets, pure in sound,
Destined to shake both sky and ground.
Clothed in robes no man could weave,
With innocence the world can't conceive.
They walk with fire upon their feet,
Messengers of hope — fierce, yet sweet.
In their mouths, the truth resounds,
In their hands, the Spirit’s bounds.
Not just learners but carriers of light,
Shining boldly through the darkest night.
So guard them well, O watchful eyes,
They are heaven's arrows in disguise.
Not for aimless wandering or earthly fame,
But to lift the banner of His name.
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