Lord of the cheerful reapers, the harvest was fair and good.
Hard by our quiet hearth stones, the yellowing wheat fields stood,
But the scythe has become a sabre in meadow and glebe and glen.
Lord of the Toilers, hear us; forgive as we cut down men!
Lord of the cunning craftsmen: The vision of Thee a lad,
Working with plane and measure, kept us content and glad;
Now, as we charge, red-handed, wielding the tools that kill,
Lord of the Toilers, hear us: Forgive us the blood we spill.
Lord of the visioning learners: out of our cloistered halls,
Parchment and tomb abandoned, we march when the bugle calls,