Grant us life to suffer for you,
To feed your delicate lips
With the strength of our blood,
To crown you with flowers of our pain
And hail you with cries of our woe,
Yet sweet and divine.
Grant us life!
If we die there is none upon earth
To feed the fierce pride of your heart;
There is none so fine and so keen,
There is none to sing at your feast.
Grant us life,
And gold lyre and box-wood pipe
Shall sound from hill-top and shore,
From the depth of the city street,
From under the horror of battle,
Faint as we faint in despair,
Yet clear in your praise.
We dream of white crags,
Skies changing and swift,
Of rain upon earth,
Of flowers soft as your fingers
And bright as your garment of love.
We have none of these things;
Only strife and despair and pain,
Lands hideous and days disfigured,
A grey sea and a muddy shore.
But for you we forget all this,
We forget our defeat,
All, all, for your sake.
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