War.
War is a wicked thing,
It strikes the strong man dead,
And leaves the trampled battle-field
With blood and carnage red,
While thousand mangled forms
In hopeless suffering bleed,
And vultures and hyenas throng
Upon their flesh to feed.
See with what bitter grief
Those widowed ones deplore;
And children for their father mourn,
Who must return no more.
And aged parents sink
In penury and despair,
And sorrow dwells in many a home,—
War makes the weeping there.
It comes with sins and woes,
A dark and endless train,
It fills the breast with murderous hate,
Where Christian love should reign;
It desolates the land
With famine, death and flame,
And those are in a sad mistake
Who seek the warrior's fame.
Oh, may I guard my heart
From every evil thing,
From thoughts of anger and revenge,
Whence wars and fightings spring.
And may the plants of peace
Grow up serene and fair,
And mark me for a child of heaven,
That I may enter there.