And all are brothers, though at times
Our flashing swords obscure the sun.
We ring aloud our Christmas chimes,
But louder sounds the booming gun,
And brother is by brother slain,
And kindred ties are rent in twain.
Yet Thou art true whate'er betide;
Thy heart o'er human woe doth melt;
For men of every race Christ died,
And, as a zone, Thy love would belt