O Little David, Play on Your Harp
O Little David, play on your harp,That ivory harp with the golden stringsAnd sing as you did in Jewry Land,Of the Prince of Peace and the God of LoveAnd the Coming Christ Immanuel.O Little David, play on your harp.
A seething world is gone stark mad; And is drunk with the blood, Gorged with the flesh, Blinded with the ashes Of her millions of dead. From out it all and over all There stands, years old and fully grown, A monster in the guise of man. He is of war and not of war; Born in peace, Nutured in arrogant pride and greed, World-creature is he and native to no land. And war itself is merciful When measured by his deeds. Beneath the Crescent Lie a people maimed; Their only sin— That they worship God. On Russia's steppes
