FROM THE GREAT WAR
115
Where the lads lie thinking long, out in rain and frost,
There they find their God again, long ago they lost.
Where the night comes cruelly, where the hurt men moan,
Where the crushed forgotten ones whisper prayers alone,
Christ along the battlefields comes to lead His own.
Souls that would have withered soon in the world's hot glare,
Blown and gone like shriveled things, dusty on the air,
Rank on rank they follow Him, young and strong and fair!
Ours is a sad Eastertide, and a woeful day,
Yet high up at Heaven's gate the saints are all gay,
For the old road to Paradise—'tis a crowded way!
