 | The Last Crusade |  |
38
THE HARVEST OF WAR.
‘Though He slay me, yet will I trust in Him.’
We thank Thee for the harvest, loving Lord,
Fruits of the blessèd bounty that is Thine
Who badst the sun fall upon it and shine,
To spread for every one a common board;
It is Thy gracious plenty that we hoard
Who gather wealth of goodly corn and wine,
And though our darlings go, and we must pine,
We thank Thee for the harvest of the sword.
Ah, from the furrows of the ruddy earth
A richer and a greater spoil shall rise,
And children made by suffering strong and wise;
Wrought in the furnace of a finer worth
To give the world a new and better birth,
And turn dark streets to paths of Paradise.
Fruits of the blessèd bounty that is Thine
Who badst the sun fall upon it and shine,
To spread for every one a common board;
It is Thy gracious plenty that we hoard
Who gather wealth of goodly corn and wine,
And though our darlings go, and we must pine,
We thank Thee for the harvest of the sword.
Ah, from the furrows of the ruddy earth
A richer and a greater spoil shall rise,
And children made by suffering strong and wise;
Wrought in the furnace of a finer worth
To give the world a new and better birth,
And turn dark streets to paths of Paradise.
We thank Thee for the darlings to us lent
For a sweet season and immortal gain,
That showed Thy heaven was nearer to us bent
And with a rift of glory through it rent;
Oh, they were Thine, not ours, nor treasures vain
But sifting us by throes of precious pain,
To show the Mercy wherefrom they were sent
And tune our spirits to the eternal strain.
We thank Thee for the harvest of the ears
So young and yet so mellowed, by a choice
That in a moment took the stride of years;
We thank Thee that we heard the gallant voice
Which bade us grieve not, but with them rejoice,
And the high faith that conquered doubts and fears.
For a sweet season and immortal gain,
That showed Thy heaven was nearer to us bent
And with a rift of glory through it rent;
Oh, they were Thine, not ours, nor treasures vain
But sifting us by throes of precious pain,
To show the Mercy wherefrom they were sent
And tune our spirits to the eternal strain.
We thank Thee for the harvest of the ears
So young and yet so mellowed, by a choice
That in a moment took the stride of years;
We thank Thee that we heard the gallant voice
Which bade us grieve not, but with them rejoice,
And the high faith that conquered doubts and fears.
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