Classic Poem

O god of Battles, who art still
The God of Love, the God of Rest,
Subdue Thy people's fiery will,
And quell the passions in their breast!
Before we bathe our hands in blood
We lift them to Thy Holy Rood.

The waiting nations hold their breath
To catch the dreadful battle-cry;
And, in the silence as of death,
The fateful hours go softly by.
O hear Thy people where they pray,
And shrive our souls before the fray!

Before the sun of peace shall set,
We kneel apart a solemn while;
Pity the eyes with sorrow wet,
But pity most the lips that smile.
The night comes fast; we hear afar
The baying of the wolves of war.

Not lightly, oh not lightly, Lord,
Let this our awful task begin;
Speak from Thy Throne a warning word
Above the angry factions' din.
If this Most Holy Will,
Be with us still — be with us still!