The breath of the south wind was laden with woe
As it moaned to the Northland “Prepare for the foe!”
And the Northland was silent a moment, and then
There was hieing and arming and marching of men.
II.
To the front! There’s a struggle—the crisis is past!
The foemen are flying! woe, woe to the last!
There’s a hush, only stirred by the zephyr of peace,
Wafting thanks to the God who makes fighting to cease.
III.
But, oh! with the voice of that zephyr a cry
Strives up after justice that seemeth to fly
From the nations of earth.—O our God have regard
To that cry; let the cause of the injured be heard!
IV.
From the blood of the true, the unselfish, the brave,
From the women and children they perished to save,
Goes a cry that no sound of rejoicing can still:
“Judge between us and those who have sanctioned this ill.”
Humanum est errare, Divinum condonare.
’Tis easy to cry “Raca”[B] from within
Cold, passionless morality’s strong tower,
To those who struggle fiercely, hour by hour,
’Gainst grim Goliaths of unconquered sin.