V
God's ally, self-ordained to wield His rod,
Trampling His will into the heretics,
Leveling their shrines to heaps of bricks,
How the red stain sticks
To the ten million pair of boots that plod!
Quickly on Him your Iron Cross bestow
That He may wash you whiter than the snow.
VI
Prince of the Vanguard, heed no bleeding clod
Left on the reeking sod among your myrmidons
Where the anathema of your Huns
Hurled from iron guns
Dashes a million frightened souls to God!
Bright shines the promise of the Prince of Peace:
"Sheer you My sheep; garner their fleece,"—
Or was it "feed" He said?
Too late! His sheep are dead.
All things must die, and even Death shall cease.
Then the Almighty on His throne may nod
Unvexed by martyrs importuning God.
THE END
Transcriber Notes:
Throughout the dialogues, there were words used to mimic accents of the speakers. Those words were retained as-is.
The illustrations have been moved so that they do not break up paragraphs and so that they are next to the text they illustrate. Thus the page number of the illustration might not match the page number in the List of Illustrations, and the order of illustrations may not be the same in the List of Illustrations and in the book.