What spurs the seasons of this life
Which bleed upon the sod?
We squander love and hate alike
To serve lust's lesser god
Freedom is not entitlement
To please our shallow pride
On autumn's crimson diadem
Brave men of honor died
Beneath the gray November sky
Beneath the warm spring sun
Beneath the fireworks of July
Our freedom has begun
Dare we to spill one hallowed breath
In thoughtless chivalry,
Or live as though we own the earth
Bought once through history?
Seasons and mankind mark the soil
Where soldier's blood-drops fell
If freedom's cost evades our toil
Then we are bound for hell
What spurs the seasons treading time?
Tis not entitlement
That brings the rain or sun to shine
On meadows that we plant
We gather harvest of the field
Yet, who evokes the sod?
Can we preserve our freedom's shield
Yet spurn the hand of God?
Excess of things leaves senses dulled
To need and poverty
Our reckoning is not annulled
By our prosperity
Winter, spring, summer and fall
Will we be diligent?
Or blindly stumble through them all