War Song

In many a mountain pass,

Or meadow green and fresh,

Mass shall encounter mass

Of shuddering human flesh;

Opposing ordnance roar

Across the swaths of slain,

And blood in torrents pour

In vain — always in vain,

For war breeds war again!

The shameful dream is past,

The subtle maze untrod:

We recognise at last

That war is not of God.