WILD Europe, red with Woden's dreadful dew,
On fire with Loki's hate, more savage than
Beasts that we shame by likening to man,
Was it toward this the toiling centuries grew?
Was it for this the Reign of Love began
In that young heretic, that gracious Jew,
Whose race His followers flout the ages through?
Is Time at last a mere comedian,
Mocking in cap and bells our pompous boast
Of progress? Nay, we will not bear it so.
A million hands launch ships to succor woe;
The stars that shudder o'er the slaughtering host
Rain blessing on the Red Cross groups that go
Careless of shrapnel, emulous for the post
Where foul diseases wreak their uttermost
Of horror. Saintship walks incognito
As scoffing Science, but Christ knows His, own
Sway as it may, the wargod's fell caprice,
The victories of Love shall still increase
Until at last, from all this wail and moan,
Rises the song of brotherhood to cease
No more, no more, —the song that shall atone
Even for this mad agony. The throne
That war is building is the throne of Peace.