 | English Roses |  |
QUO DEINDE RUIS?
Ho, the sword! that sharpens for the fray
And the marching of the men
Ready to arise from prayer to slay,
At the scratching of a pen!
Europe one great armèd camp,
Echoes with the dreadful tramp
Of the millions in their gaudy coats
Ripe for flying at each others' throats.
Ho, the marching of the men,
Who to the same God of mercy call
And prepare for murder one and all,
At the scratching of a pen!
And the marching of the men
Ready to arise from prayer to slay,
At the scratching of a pen!
Europe one great armèd camp,
Echoes with the dreadful tramp
Of the millions in their gaudy coats
Ripe for flying at each others' throats.
Ho, the marching of the men,
Who to the same God of mercy call
And prepare for murder one and all,
At the scratching of a pen!
Christ of Peace and Love, our common Lord,
Unto whom alike we bend,
With this ghastly gospel of the sword
What abyss shall be the end?
Unto whom alike we bend,
With this ghastly gospel of the sword
What abyss shall be the end?
Ho, the guns that clamour for the fray,
The eclipse of blood and fire,
Grim as devils' own black holiday,
At a word upon a wire!
Europe, with each death machine,
Is one powder magazine,
Waiting for the nod and tiny flash
Just to make the world almighty smash.
Ho, eclipse of blood and fire
Shadowed in the future's awful arch,
As the multitudes destroying march
At a word upon a wire!
158
Grim as devils' own black holiday,
At a word upon a wire!
Europe, with each death machine,
Is one powder magazine,
Waiting for the nod and tiny flash
Just to make the world almighty smash.
Ho, eclipse of blood and fire
Shadowed in the future's awful arch,
As the multitudes destroying march
At a word upon a wire!
Christ of Peace and Love our common Lord,
Unto whom alike we bend,
With this ghastly gospel of the sword
What abyss shall be the end?
Unto whom alike we bend,
With this ghastly gospel of the sword
What abyss shall be the end?
Ho, the myriads of mourners, draped
In the garmenting of gloom
For the thousands who have not escaped,
And the orphans and their doom!
Europe with its veilèd brow,
Is one cemetery now;
And the widows from their haunted sleep
Only wake, to curse their loss and weep.
Ho, the garmenting of gloom
For a babbler or a party whim
And the empty loves for ever dim,
And the orphans and their doom!
In the garmenting of gloom
For the thousands who have not escaped,
And the orphans and their doom!
Europe with its veilèd brow,
Is one cemetery now;
And the widows from their haunted sleep
Only wake, to curse their loss and weep.
Ho, the garmenting of gloom
For a babbler or a party whim
And the empty loves for ever dim,
And the orphans and their doom!
Christ of Peace and Love our common Lord,
Unto whom alike we bend,
With this ghastly gospel of the sword
What abyss shall be the end?
Unto whom alike we bend,
With this ghastly gospel of the sword
What abyss shall be the end?
| English Roses | |