There once of old wild battles roared
And brother-blood was on the sword;
Now all the fields are rich with grain
And only roses redden the plain.
Torn were the peoples with feuds and hates—
Fear on the mountain-walls, death at the gates;
Then through the clamor of arms was heard
A whisper of the Master's word.
"Fling down your swords; be friends again:
Ye are not wolf-packs: ye are men.
Let brother-counsel be the Law;
Not serpent fang, not tiger claw."
Chile and Argentina heard;
The great hopes in their spirits stirred;
The red swords from their clenched fists fell,
And heaven shone out where once was hell!
They hurled their cannons into flame
And out of the forge the strong Christ came.
'Twas thus they molded in happy fire
The tall Christ of their heart's desire....
O Christ of Olivet, you husht the wars
Under the far Andean stars:
Lift now your strong nail-wounded hands
Over all peoples, over all lands—
