The Battle Cry of the Weakling (a paraphrase of Isaiah 50, Nehemiah 4, II Timothy 1)

The quarry from which I was dug has no sandstone. I’m hewn of flint, partnered with steel, sparks fly. I fan the flame, the spirit of power, of love, of self-control. Blazing arrow-taunts fly at me, “What does she think she is doing? She is a weakling, the job is colossal. She doesn’t have the resources or qualifications ...” I’m not shamed. Rescue is near. I set my face like flint and shout back, “Who’s next? You want a piece of me?” When my Evil opponent steps up I will wear him out like a rag, a gnawing little moth‘ll finish him off.  They shake their heads. “Lord help her.” They say. But see, he does. The Lord does help me.