When weariness binds each step, and people’s shenanigans get a bit much,
When every good done seems to come to naught, and hope begins to dry,
Another gentle hand on the arm, urging us up…..
by Alfred Joyce Kilmer (1886 – 1918)
Upon his will he binds a radiant chain,
For Freedom’s sake he is no longer free
It is his task, the slave of Liberty
With his own blood to wipe away a stain
That pain may cease, he yields his flesh to pain
To banish war, he must a warrior be
He dwells in Night, eternal Dawn to see,
And gladly dies, abundant life to gain.
What matters Death, if Freedom be not dead?
No flags are fair, if Freedom’s flag be furled
Who fights for Freedom, goes with joyful tread
To meet the fires of Hell against him hurled,
And has for captain Him whose thorn-wreathed head
Smiles from the Cross upon a conquered world.
June 14, 1918