I wonder if, after this fury, there will be a radiant morn for Europe; not one that has passed away.
When wilt Thou save the people?
O God of mercy, when?
Not kings alone, but nations!
Not thrones and crowns, but men!
Flowers of Thy heart, O God, are they;
Let them not pass like weeds away,
Their heritage a sunless day.
God save the people!
A few more turns of the sap, and then I come to three trenches meeting, and it is a dangerous spot, for shells are dropping close. But the sentry, with bayonet fixed, is on guard.