His church a blackened ruin, scarce one stone
Left on another,—yet, untouched alone,—
THE CROSS STILL STANDS!
His shrines o'erthrown, His altars desecrate,
His priests the victims of a pagan hate,—
THE CROSS STILL STANDS!
'Mid all the horrors of the reddened ways,
The thund'rous nights, the dark and dreadful days,—
THE CROSS STILL STANDS!
* * * * *
And, 'mid the chaos of the Deadlier Strife,—
A Church at odds with its own self and life,—
HIS CROSS STILL STANDS!
Faith folds her wings, and Hope at times grows dim;
The world goes wandering away from Him;—
HIS CROSS STILL STANDS!
Love, with the lifted hands and thorn-crowned head,
Still conquers Death, though life itself be fled;—
HIS CROSS STILL STANDS!
Yes,—Love triumphant stands, and stands for more,
In our great need, than e'er it stood before!
HIS CROSS STILL STANDS!
WHERE ARE YOU SLEEPING TO-NIGHT, MY LAD?
Where are you sleeping to-night, My Lad,
Above-ground—or below?
The last we heard you were up at the front,
Holding a trench and bearing the brunt;—
But—that was a week ago.