Pilgrims

For oh, when the war will be over

We'll go and we'll look for our dead;

We'll go when the bee's on the clover,

And the plume of the poppy is red:

We'll go when the year's at its gayest,

When meadows are laughing with flow'rs;

And there where the crosses are greyest,

We'll seek for the cross that is ours.

For they cry to us:‘ Friends, we are lonely,

A-weary the night and the day;

But come in the blossom-time only,

Come when our graves will be gay:

When daffodils all are a-blowing,

And larks are a-thrilling the skies,

Oh, come with the hearts of you glowing,

And the joy of the Spring in your eyes.

‘ But never, oh, never come sighing,

For ours was the Splendid Release;

And oh, but‘ twas joy in the dying

To know we were winning you Peace!

So come when the valleys are sheening,

And fledged with the promise of grain;

And here where our graves will be greening,

Just smile and be happy again.’

And so, when the war will be over,

We'll seek for the Wonderful One;

And maiden will look for her lover,

And mother will look for her son;

And there will be end to our grieving,

And gladness will gleam over loss,

As — glory beyond all believing!

We point... to a name on a cross.