A simple poem

Storm clouds roll around the palace of the sun
Thunderclap and lightning flash seem like distant guns
The armies of the darkness surround the walls of truth
Battle lines are drawn upon the plains of joy and youth
Naught seems left for the defense, no hope left at all
The enemy’s grim and powerful, good’s chance of victr’y small.
Yet upon those plains unbounded by aught save land and sky
There stands a hope beyond all hopes, the one who cannot die.
Yet He is not as other hopes, a shining figure armed
With armor fair of double proof, nor plumed like Caesar's guard.
His armor is His sun-browned skin, now crossed with bleeding scars
His crown a cap of cruel, dark thorns that cut and prick and mar.
His charger is an oaken tree, and was shaped by evil men
It seems a twisted, devilish thing, a monster from the fens.
"Death, death, death" cries the armies spawned in hell
Their trumpets blast, the very earth cracks and looses creatures great and fell.
Reeling back and holding, then falling back in fear
The armies of the best of men seem to fade and disappear.
One sole remnant, a meager few, make their stand about their Lord
And as it seems the day is done and they are for the sword,
A single cry escapes the lips of Jesus Christ the Lord.
Consummatum est!
Back are rolled the armies of the dark's own meager king
Back and back and back again they fall as that voice rings!
For in that moment is revealed as plain as brightest day
That the darkness has not conquered Him, it is He that's conquered they!
All glory to the Word of God, that great and merc'ful king
Who grievely wronged by Adam's sin defeated sin for him.