They have not forgotten the insults
Too deep to be framed into speech,
Nor the homes that were burned down to ashes,
Nor the things that such cruelties teach.
Too deep to be framed into speech,
Nor the homes that were burned down to ashes,
Nor the things that such cruelties teach.
They remember, those martyrs of Belgium,
Those women of France bled white;
Oh, they stopped their numb ears, but the crying
Of loved ones went on through the night!
They have prayed till their hearts were blood-sweated,
They have cursed in their fury of wrong,
They know, through the fullness of torture,
Where the guilt and the payment belong.
Those women of France bled white;
Oh, they stopped their numb ears, but the crying
Of loved ones went on through the night!
They have prayed till their hearts were blood-sweated,
They have cursed in their fury of wrong,
They know, through the fullness of torture,
Where the guilt and the payment belong.
They are asking no share in the councils,
But they wait outside and apart
And the silence that settles upon them
Is a silence that clutches the heart;
For if Justice should falter or quibble
When their story of wrong is unfurled,
The protest they send up to heaven
Will shake the big heart of the world.
But they wait outside and apart
And the silence that settles upon them
Is a silence that clutches the heart;
For if Justice should falter or quibble
When their story of wrong is unfurled,
The protest they send up to heaven
Will shake the big heart of the world.
They trod the hot plowshares of torture,
Their sons went down to the dust,
Their children were led through the shambles
To the pagan altars of lust.
And so when the council shall gather
To sentence the foemen, then
'Tis they who will speak in the judgment—
They, the mothers of men.
Their sons went down to the dust,
Their children were led through the shambles
To the pagan altars of lust.
And so when the council shall gather
To sentence the foemen, then
'Tis they who will speak in the judgment—
They, the mothers of men.
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