 | The Last Crusade |  |
11
THE MIST OF MORNING.
At early morning, when the spider weaves
Elf cradles out of dew and light and air,
Divinely fair;
While in a rush of radiance every blossom
And every emerald of the lowliest leaves,
To the sun's bosom
Are gathered, and the sea laughs to the air;
Then doth earth's beauty, as her royal robe
Clings to each woman, glorify the globe.
Elf cradles out of dew and light and air,
Divinely fair;
While in a rush of radiance every blossom
And every emerald of the lowliest leaves,
To the sun's bosom
Are gathered, and the sea laughs to the air;
Then doth earth's beauty, as her royal robe
Clings to each woman, glorify the globe.
Then too our Holy War takes meaning fresh,
And we behold the Maker moulding still
Unto His Will
New worlds through battle shock's red revelation;
The mystery of mangled bones and flesh
Finds explanation,
And spirit speaks more clearly out of ill.
Forth from brute thunders and the iron waves,
A miracle of blessing marks the graves.
And we behold the Maker moulding still
Unto His Will
New worlds through battle shock's red revelation;
The mystery of mangled bones and flesh
Finds explanation,
And spirit speaks more clearly out of ill.
Forth from brute thunders and the iron waves,
A miracle of blessing marks the graves.
Yea, and in sunrise at its fullest flood
Sleeps calm of sunset marvellously sweet,
'Midst all the unmeet;
The shadow of God's Presence, who is Neighbour
Unto men rolled in agony and blood,
Falls as in labour
With the death surges foaming at His feet.
Thus far, no farther, may the billows roar
That break in mercy on the Eternal Shore.
Sleeps calm of sunset marvellously sweet,
'Midst all the unmeet;
The shadow of God's Presence, who is Neighbour
Unto men rolled in agony and blood,
Falls as in labour
With the death surges foaming at His feet.
Thus far, no farther, may the billows roar
That break in mercy on the Eternal Shore.
12
For all that is most sacred do we fight,
Freedom and truth, the hearth, the altar flame
Against beast shame;
For women's honour and the unarmed weakness
Of old age, and our children's love and light
In trembling meekness,
And the poor suffering souls for whom Christ came.
Ours is the triumph of the trust, that lies
At the foundation of dear liberties.
Freedom and truth, the hearth, the altar flame
Against beast shame;
For women's honour and the unarmed weakness
Of old age, and our children's love and light
In trembling meekness,
And the poor suffering souls for whom Christ came.
Ours is the triumph of the trust, that lies
At the foundation of dear liberties.
Ah, God is striving for and with us yet,
We guard the solemn rights, the heavenly source
Above fool force;
Ours is the splendid charge of spacious living,
The star that in the darkness never set
Of utmost giving,
And guides the earth along its destined course.
Faith holds the hand that strikes, the ensanguined sword
Is love itself, and sharpened by our Lord.
We guard the solemn rights, the heavenly source
Above fool force;
Ours is the splendid charge of spacious living,
The star that in the darkness never set
Of utmost giving,
And guides the earth along its destined course.
Faith holds the hand that strikes, the ensanguined sword
Is love itself, and sharpened by our Lord.
| The Last Crusade | |