Silent, the Lord of the world
Eyes from the heavenly height,
Girt by his far-shining train,
Us, who with banners unfurl’d
Fight life’ many-chanc’d fight
Madly below, in the plain.
Thus saith the Lord to his own:—
“See ye the battle below?
Turmoil of death and of birth!
Too long let we them groan.
Haste, arise ye, and go;
Carry my peace upon earth.”
Gladly they rise at his call;
Gladly they take his command;
Gladly descend to the plain.
Alas! How few of them all—
Those willing servants—shall stand
In the Master’s presence again!
Some in the tumult are lost:
Baffled, bewilder’d, they stray.
Some as prisoners draw breath.
Others—the bravest—are cross’d,
On the height of their bold-follow’d way,
By the swift-rushing missile of Death.
Hardly, hardly shall one
Come, with countenance bright,
O’er the cloud-wrapt, perilous plain:
His Master’s errand well done,
Safe through the smoke of the fight,
Back to his Master again.