LITMIR.BIZ

      He passed in the very battle-smoke

      Of the war that he had descried.

      Three hundred mile of cannon spoke

      When the Master-Gunner died.

      He passed to the very sound of the guns;

      But, before his eye grew dim,

      He had seen the faces of the sons

      Whose sires had served with him.

      He had touched their sword-hilts and greeted each

      With the old sure word of praise;

      And there was virtue in touch and speech

      As it had been in old days.

      So he dismissed them and took his rest,

      And the steadfast spirit went forth

      Between the adoring East and West

      And the tireless guns of the North.

      Clean, simple, valiant, well-beloved,

      Flawless in faith and fame,

      Whom neither ease nor honours moved

      An hair's-breadth from his aim.

      Never again the war-wise face,

      The weighed and urgent word

      That pleaded in the market-place —

      Pleaded and was not heard!

      Yet from his life a new life springs

      Through all the hosts to come,

      And Glory is the least of things

      That follow this man home.

      Brethren, how shall it fare with me

      When the war is laid aside,

      If it be proven that I am he

      For whom a world has died?

      If it be proven that all my good,

      And the greater good I will make,

      Were purchased me by a multitude

      Who suffered for my sake?

      That I was delivered by mere mankind

      Vowed to one sacrifice,

      And not, as I hold them, battle-blind,

      But dying with open eyes?

      That they did not ask me to draw the sword

      When they stood to endure their lot —

      That they only looked to me for a word,

      And I answered I knew them not?

      If it be found, when the battle clears,

      Their death has set me free,

      Then how shall I live with myself through the years

      Which they have bought for me?

      Brethren, how must it fare with me,

      Or how am I justified,

      If it be proven that I am he

      For whom mankind has died,

      If it be proven that I am he

      Who being questioned denied?

      To the Judge of Right and Wrong

      With Whom fulfilment lies

      Our purpose and our power belong,

      Our faith and sacrifice.

      Let Freedom's Land rejoice!

      Our ancient bonds are riven;

      Once more to us the eternal choice

      Of Good or Ill is given.

      Not at a little cost,

      Hardly by prayer or tears,

      Shall we recover the road we lost

      In the drugged and doubting years.

      But, after the fires and the wrath,

      But, after searching and pain,

      His Mercy opens us a path

      To live with ourselves again.

      In the Gates of Death rejoice!

      We see and hold the good —

      Bear witness, Earth, we have made our choice

      With Freedom's brotherhood!

      Then praise the Lord Most High

      Whose Strength hath saved us whole,

      Who bade us choose that the Flesh should die

      And not the living Soul!

      To the God in Man displayed —

      Where e'er we see that Birth,

      Be love and understanding paid

      As never yet on earth!

      To the Spirit that moves in Man,

      On Whom all worlds depend,

      Be Glory since our world began

      And service to the end!

      A tinker out of Bedford,

      A vagrant oft in quod,

      A private under Fairfax,

      A minister of God —

      Two hundred years and thirty

      Ere Armageddon came

      His single hand portrayed it,

      And Bunyan was his name!

      He mapped, for those who follow,

      The world in which we are —

      'This famous town of Mansoul'

      That takes the Holy War

      Her

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