Mourns for so many sons on land and sea.
God of the love that makes two lives as one
Give also strength to see that England's will be done.
Let it be done, yea, down to the last tittle,
Up to the fullness of all sacrifice.
Our dead feared this alone—to give too little.
Then shall the living murmur at the price?
The hands withdrawn from ours to grasp the plough
Would suffer only if the furrow faltered now.
Know, fellow-mourners—be our cross too grievous—