The Poet's Blade

Here is a new poem of mine. I hope that you like it. Maybe I will explain it sometime soon.

To Drink Of Thy Cup ©
by Adam Thomas Wilhelm



“Would you drink this cup of mine?”
That is what my master said.
“Can you drink this cup of mine?”
I said, “oh yes I can.”
“Will you drink this cup of mine?”
Of course you called me my Lord.

At first, t’was for glory, I had taken the cup;
To take part in the King’s kingdom;
For my own gains and glory.
At first, t’was for my own glory, I had taken the cup;
For my fulfillment, and love for me;
Not for Christ or love of Him.

Then one day, in revelation,
It came to me in God’s great light:
I heard the rushing of great winds,
A flame of fire upon my head,
And then, I understood.

Not for me, but for my Lord.
Not for me, but for my Love.
Not my will, but His be done.

Oh, if the martyrs of the past could have told.
If the prophets and the patriarchs could have conveyed;
If the priests of the day could have told me straight;
It’s in death, that we have life, and not in life itself.

For they all died, and received no kingdom.
Not of earthly, or timely glory.
But it was on heaven they fixed their eyes;
In the kingdom of God they placed their hope.

Now that I know and have mastered this riddle,
I see it is for me to do:
To drink, of the cup, of our Master and Lord,
Is to Love Him dearly, and to give up my life.
Not to receive, but to give my service.
Not to live, but to die for His glory.


T’was His blood that saved my soul.
T’was His blood that inspired my life.
T’was His blood that gave me life.
Now t’is I shall give my life in return.

So when He asks me, that question so dear;
When life He offers to give, and strife to take;
When honor and glory and death, run before my eyes,
I understand my task, my life, my need.

Oh the prophets that have gone before me;
The servants of God and Saints so dear.
The pain they suffered, of sword and of fire,
Of rape and of beatings, of whippings and darkness.
I understand now that of my task;
That of my calling and that of my past.

Oh that my life would be like theirs.
Let nails pierce my hands, and a sword pierce my heart.
Let hooks rip my flesh, and the rack tear my limbs.
Let my body be beaten, and my face be shattered.
Let my blood pour down, and my water flow.
Let it flow, like my love for the Lord.

Now it is not the riches and glory;
Whether anyone sees, or watches or not;
Whether called a Saint, by bishop or pope;
I do not care, if my name is made known.
But when I go down, into death for my Father,
There is only one would need to know.
My Father, my Daddy, my love Jesus Christ.

Oh, so thankful am I, my life I’d commit.
So in love am I, my death I would give.
That I would give, my body and blood;
That my body and blood, would be all but mine.

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