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FOR THE AIRMEN
67
The wings of the birds of Heaven be nigh
Lest their wings fail them and they die.
Make Thou their flying as deft and fleet
As the flight of the linnet or the blue-tit.
Thy hand over them, shall they fear
The spears of lightning or any spear?
Thy hand under them, what shall appal?
Not the fierce foe nor the sudden fall.
Show them Thy moon at night: Thy stars
Bid stand as sentinels in their wars.
Yea, make their lone tracks pleasant as
A soft meandering path in grass.
Thou that launchest the wren, the swallow
Guard our flying loves when they follow.
