Люси Ларком (Lucy Larcom)

A Canticle of War (A. N. 1863)

GLORY to Thee, Father of all the Immortal,
Ever belongs:
We bring Thee from our watch by the grave's portal
Nothing but songs.
Though every wave of trouble has gone o'er us, —
Though in the fire
We have lost treasures time cannot restore us, —
Though all desire
That made life beautiful fades out in sorrow —
Though the strange path
Winding so lonely through the bleak to-morrow,
No comfort hath, —
Though blackness gathers round us on all faces,
And we can see
By the red war-flash but Love's empty places, —
Glory to Thee!
For, underneath the crash and roar of battle,
The deafening roll
That calls men off to butchery like cattle,
Soul after soul;
Under the horrid sound of chaos seething
In blind, hot strife,
We feel the moving of Thy Spirit, breathing
A better life
Into the air of our long-sickened nation;
A muffled hymn;
The star-sung prelude of a new creation;
Suffusions dim, —
The bursting upward of a stifled glory,
That shall arise
To light new pages in the world's great story
For happier eyes.
If upon lips too close to dead lips leaning,
Songs be not found,
Yet wilt Thou know our life's unuttered meaning:
In its deep ground,
As seeds in earth, sleep sorrow-drenched praises,
Waiting to bring
Incense to Thee along thought's barren mazes
When Thou send'st spring.
Glory to Thee! we say, with shuddering wonder,
While a hushed land
Hears the stern lesson syllabled in thunder,
That Truth is grand
As life must be; that neither man nor nation
May soil thy throne
With a soul's life-blood — horrible oblation!
Nor quick be shown
That Thou wilt not be mocked by prayer whose nurses
Were Rate and Wrong;
That trees so vile must drop back fruit in curses
Bitter and strong.
Glory to Thee, who wilt not let us smother
Ourselves in sin;
Sending Pain's messengers fast on each other
Us thence to win!
Praise for the scourging under which we languish,
So torn, so sore!
And save us strength, if yet uncleansed by anguish,
To welcome more.
Life were not life to us, could they be fables, —
Justice and Right:
Scathe crime with lightning, till we see the tables
Of Law burn bright!
Glory to Thee, whose glory and whose pleasure
Must be in good!
By Thee the mysteries we cannot measure
Are understood.
With the abysses of Thyself above us,
Our sins below,
That Thou dost look from Thy pure heaven and love us,
Enough to know.
Enough to lay our praises on Thy bosom —
Praises fresh-grown
Out of our depths, dark root and open blossom,
Up to Thy throne.
When choking tears make our Hosannas falter,
The music free!
Oh, keep clear voices singing at Thy altar,
Glory to Thee!

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