THE BATTLE ISN'T OVER

David Mallet wrote it. John Denver sang it. A reminder that the earth wasn't created just for man, but for all her children. And a reminder that so called "wise use" is usually just an excuse to take what we want and claim that it's "God's will" while we clear cut a mountain side or take off the top of a mountain to get at the coal and dump the mess into the creek below.

Funny, I've never really been moved by any hymn I've heard. Except for a few Christmas Carols. David Arkenstone, John Denver, almost anything Celtic. Now that touches my soul.

And to those reasonably sane Christians who believe that if we can just recast the message of a kinder, gentler Jesus something can be salvaged from the fundies. Too bad you're about fifteen hundred years too late. There is some good in the Celtic branch of Christianity. It might be a place to start, but I'm afraid that it's time to start over. Jesus, if he existed, didn't come to start a church. He came to teach us how to live. Long past time.

You Say That The Battle Is Over

And you say that the battle is over,
And you say that the war is all done
Go tell it to those with the wind in their nose
Who run from the sound of the gun,
And write it on the sides of the great whaling-ships,
Or on ice floes where conscience is tossed
With the wild in their eyes, it is they who must die
And it's we who must measure the loss.

And you say that the battle is over,
And finally the world is at peace
You mean no one is dying, and mothers don't weep,
Or it's not in the papers, at least.
There are those who would deal in the darkness of life,
There are those who would tear down the sun,
And most men are ruthless, but some will still weep
When the gifts we were given are gone.

Now the blame cannot fall on the heads of a few,
It's become such a part of the race;
It's eternally tragic that that which is magic
Be killed at the end of the glorious chase.
From young seals to great whales, from waters to wood,
They will fall just like weeds in the wind;
With fur coats, and perfumes, and trophies on walls:
What a hell of a race to call men.

And you say that the battle is over,
And you say that the war is all done
Go tell it to those with the wind in their nose
Who run from the sound of the gun,
And write it on the sides of the great whaling-ships,
Or on ice floes where conscience is tossed
With the wild in their eyes, it is they who must die
And it's we who must measure the loss.
With the wild in their eyes, it is they who must die,
And it's we who must measure the cost.

Words and music by David Mallet

No the battle isn't over. We have to get up and fight over and over just to stay where we are. Some days it seems that making any kind of progress is just a dream.