thro' this roar of the guns one prayer may reach Thee, Lord of all Life, whose mercies never sleep, Not in our time, not now, Lord, we beseech Thee To grant us peace. The sword has bit too deep.
We may not rest. We hear the wall of mothers Mourning the sons who fil some nameless grave Past us, in dreams, the ghosts march of our brothers Who were most yaliant....whom we could not save.
We may snot rest. What though our eyes be holden, In sleep we see dear eyes yet wet with tears, And locks that once Were, oh, so fair and golden, Grown grey in hours more pitiless than years.
We see all fair things fouled—homes love's hands builded Shattered to dust beside their withered vines, Shattered the towers that once Thy sunsets allded, struck yet again within His shrines.
Over them hangs the dust of death, beside them The dead lie countless—and the foe laughs stilt We may not rest, while those cruel mouths deride them, We, who were proud, yet could not work:
Thy will, We have fatled—we have been more weak than these betrayers—In strength or in faith we have failed; our pride was vain How can we rest, Who have not slain the slayers?
'What peace for us, who have seen Thy chil ren slain'
Mark, the roar grows,..the thunders awaken—We ask one thing, Lord, only one thing now: Hearts high as theirs, who went to death une shaken, Courage like theirs to make and keep their vow.
To stay not till these hosts whom mercies harden, Who know' no glory save of sword fire, Find in our fire the splendour of Thy pardon, Meet from our steel the mercy they desire...
Then to our children there shall be no handing (Of fares so vain—of passions so abhorred. But peace,...the Peace which passes unde!
Not in our time...but Ji their time, © Lord.
Text read from the printed page and cleaned; old type leaves the occasional error.