I THE tides of Death go swiftly home And the nets of Pain are spread, The blood runs warm on the cold, cold loam In desolate fields of dead. @3The shadows fall, and the great guns call, But there with silent tread His footsteps go through the lanes of woe— White Lord of the Thorn-crowned Head.@1 II From out of the peace of God's abode He comes when brave men fail, With limbs that know of an ancient load— The Cross and the denting nail. @3His eyes are bright as an altar-light In the calm of an alter-rail, And the stricken sing to see Him bring His gift of the Holy Grail.@1 III And some men wake on their comrade's breast, And some men live to praise, But some fare forth through the dark of the West With the Christ of their childhood days @3To stand full free in His chivalry, To live in His love always, And they proudly go, with their wounds aglow, Transfigured in His gaze.@1 |