With a glory in his bosom that transfigures you and me:
As He died to make men holy, let us die to make men free,
While God is marching on.
127. Our Orders
Weave no more silks, ye Lyons looms,
To deck our girls for gay delight!
The crimson flower of battle blooms,
And solemn marches fill the night.
Weave but the flag whose bars to-day
Drooped heavy o’er our early dead,