’Tis easy, safely far from battle’s din,
To wave a sword or raise a banner high
To those who have to fight each inch, or—die;
Who must be wounded, even if they win.
’Tis easy to point clean, weak hands of scorn
When some much-tempted brother falls or flies;
Or some sweet Eve has strayed from Paradise
Into the outer world of briar and thorn.
But in the great, high council of the skies
There’s One who reads men’s hearts with milder eyes.
[B] St. Matthew’s Gospel v. 22.
SING ME THE SONGS I LOVE.
Sing me the songs I love once more,
The songs your lips have made so dear,
For many a day must pass before
Again your music fills my ear.
And when you are no longer near,
I’ll in my loneliness rejoice,
Deep in my inmost heart, to hear
The gentle music of your voice.
’Tis not in words that friendship lies,
E’en when those words in music move,
But words have power that never dies,
When said or sung by those we love.
So when in weariness I rove
Through the world’s desert, seeking rest,
The memory of your songs shall prove
A solace to my lonely breast.
And when you sing those songs again,
For gayer hearts and brighter eyes,
And thinking upon “now” as “then,”
Memories of other days arise,
Believe that none more dearly prize
The strains your lips so sweetly pour,
Than he who asked ’neath other skies,
“Sing me the songs I love once more.”