Now we know a little of what it means, for so many of our best have died for us. So many real if not material crosses have been lifted on the low hills of Flanders; so many have laid down their lives for the race, that we are beginning to understand.
There is nothing morbid in these thoughts of Christ dying. The Cross to the soldier is full of sweet helpfulness, it appeals to him with comfort.
Everard Owen, in a poem which we are allowed to reprint from The Times, called 'A Kind Hill to Souls in Jeopardy,' gives us the idea of tender succour which men see in Calvary:
There is a hill in England,
Green fields and a school I know,
Where the balls fly fast in summer,
And the whispering elm-trees grow.
A little hill, a dear hill,
And the playing-fields below.
There is a hill in Flanders