Father in Heaven, I thank Thee for this hour,
This blessed hour wherein my contrite soul
Humbled and happy bows itself to Thee,
Pleading that all its error and its sin
May be forgiven—even as I forgive.
The cruel wrong swept o'er me like a flood;
And my hurt soul in fierce defiance rose,
And all forgetful that itself could sin
Heaped heavy hatred on the offender's head.
There came a calmer hour in which I saw
The strong temptation that had moved him thus
To barter all his better life away—
Love, honor, principle—to gain the world.
And seeing this I learned to pity him.
For well I knew the bauble he had won
Would only mock him with its faithless glare;
And well I knew the golden fruit he grasped
Would be but dust and ashes in his hand;
And knowing this I learned to pity him.
And as my pity grew it turned to prayer—
That when the glitter of the gold was gone,
And the sweet fruit was bitter to his taste;
When the sad memory of the slighted past
Came, and made deeper still the present gloom,
The darkness might be lifted, and the Soul,
Self-robbed and famishing, might find its way
To the green pastures and the springs of life,
That in the heart whence love and joy had fled,
Whence hope was exiled, there might yet be peace.
But suddenly I queried in my heart
What power had moved me that I should have prayed
For him I counted as my life-long foe.
Greatly I marveled what it meant that thus
I had called down such blessing upon him—
The kindliest boon of heaven, the peace of God.
Deep in my soul there came an answering voice:
"O Child, it is but this—thou hast forgiven!"
Then thanks, O Father, for this plessed hour,
Wherein my soul, by Thine own Spirit taught,
Prays with no mockery of words Thy prayer:
"Forgive my trespasses, as I forgive."
[A LOST SONG?]
Horror of combat, and tumult and dread;
Thunder of cannon and bursting of bomb;
Moans of the wounded (who envy the dead)
Lost in the clamor of trumpet and drum.
O where is the song of the angels?
O when shall we hear it again?
"Peace on earth," rang the chorus seraphic,
"And good will evermore among men."
Here is fierce anger and hatred and death,
Pitiless slaughter of pitiless foe;
Blessings and curses poured forth in a breath;
Brave self-forgetting, and measureless woe.
But where is the song of the angels?
O when shall we hear it again?
"Peace on earth," rang the chorus seraphic,
"And good will evermore among men."
Blue waves of ocean are reddened with gore,
Victor and victim earth holds to her breast;
Hearts that will thrill with ambition no more;
Heads that so lately fond mothers caressed.
O where is the song of the angels?
O when shall we hear it again?
"Peace on earth," rang the chorus seraphic,
"And good will evermore among men."
Victory, purchased at infinite cost,
Honors and titles so fearfully won,
Fame, at the price of lives blighted and lost,
Graves, all unnoted, unnumbered, unknown.
O where is the song of the angels?
Dear Christ, let us hear it again;
"Peace on earth," send the chorus seraphic,
"Peace on earth, and good will among men."