A sea of blood is rising and beating at the Wall
Of Peace, that threatens sorely, with each new tide to fall.
Upon its crimson surface (O God! the fearful cost)!
Like floatage from a shipwreck, humanity is lost.
Dashed to a doom relentless, worn age and noble youth,
Cast at Thy feet, all broken, are at the sea’s grim ruth.
God of the slain and slayer, the craven and the brave,
The scarlet waters, corpse-strewn, Thy very throne must lave
If Thou stay not the flood-tide (’tis brimmed with women’s tears.)
Cup in Thy hand this Red Sea, and calm men’s dread and fears;