Onward we trudge, a hostile herd,
On through our night;
God's creatures less than beast or bird;
A bloody sight.
Slaves to our own decree, burnt through of fires,
Doubting our Maker's love, or His desires.
Thus through unending pain
We go to death,
Hoping by Death to gain
A happier breath;
Trusting for once, whatever we had doubted,
That Death himself to us, of victory now shouted.
Fed with the failing of our life,
Moistened with gall,
We seek for peace in battle strife,
Food for us all;
So in our fellows' blood our hands we steep,
Trusting that good will come, when laid to sleep.
Great God, with tending hand
Watch o'er our souls,
Speeding from Mammon's land
To other goals.
And when the battlefield gives up her dead,
Let each on angel's breast lay down his head.
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