God grant the sacrifice be not in vain!
Those valiant souls who set themselves with pride
To hold the Ways... and fought... and fought... and died,—
They rest with Thee.
But, to the end of time,
The virtue of their valiance shall remain,
To pulse a nobler life through every vein
Of our humanity.
No drop of hero-blood e'er runs to waste,
But springs eternal, Fountain pure and chaste,
For cleansing of men's souls from earthly grime.
Life knows no waste. The Reaper tolls in vain,
In vain piles high his grim red harvesting,—
His dread, red harvest of the slain!
God's wondrous husbandry is oft obscure,
But, without halt or haste, its course is sure,
And His good grain must die to live again.
From this dread sowing, grant us harvest, Lord,
Of Nobler Doing, and of Loftier Hope,—
An All-Embracing and Enduring Peace,—
A Bond of States, a Pact of Peoples, based
On no caprice of royal whim, but on
Foundation mightier than the mightiest throne —
The Well-Considered Will of All the Lands.
Therewith,— a simpler, purer, larger life,
Unhampered by the dread of war's alarms,
A life attuned to closer touch with Thee,
And golden-threaded with Thy Charity;—
A Sweeter Earth,— a Nearer Heaven,— a World
As emulous in Peace as once in War,
And striving ever upward towards The Goal.
So, once again, through Death shall come New Life,
And out of Darkness, Light.