# The Muse in Arms/The Christian Soldier

The Christian Soldier
LXVII
The Cross of Wood
GOD be with you and us who go our way And leave you dead upon the ground you won. For you at last the long fatigue is done, The hard march ended; you have rest to-day.
You were our friends; with you we watched the dawn Gleam through the rain of the long winter night, With you we laboured till the morning light Broke on the village, shell-destroyed and torn.
Not now for you the glorious return To steep Stroud valleys, to the Severn leas By Tewkesbury and Gloucester, or the trees Of Cheltenham under high Cotswold stern.
For you no medals such as others wear— A cross of bronze for those approvèd brave— To you is given, above a shallow grave, The Wooden Cross that marks you resting there.
​Rest you content; more honourable far Than all the Orders is the Cross of Wood, The symbol of self-sacrifice that stood Bearing the God whose brethren you are.
Cyril Winterbotham.
LXVIII
What is War?
WHAT is war? Ask the young men who fight, Men who defend the right, Ask them—what is war? "Honour—or death—that is war," Say the young men.
What is war? Ask of the women who weep, Mourning for those who sleep, Ask them—what is war? "Sorrow and grief—that is war," Say the women.
What is war? By ways beyond our ken, God tries the souls of men, Sends retribution just, Punishing vice and lust, God's wrath for sin—that is war.
J. M. Rose-Troup.
Weilburg A. D. Lahn, February 11th, 1916.
LXIX
How long, O Lord?
HOW long, O Lord, how long, before the flood Of crimson-welling carnage shall abate? From sodden plains in West and East, the blood Of kindly men steams up in mists of hate, Polluting Thy clean air; and nations great In reputation of the arts that bind The world with hopes of heaven, sink to the state Of brute barbarians, whose ferocious mind Gloats o'er the bloody havoc of their kind, Not knowing love or mercy. Lord, how long Shall Satan in high places lead the blind To battle for the passions of the strong? Oh, touch Thy children's hearts, that they may know Hate their most hateful, pride their deadliest foe.
Robert Palmer.
LXX
Release
THERE is a healing magic in the night, The breeze blows cleaner than it did by day, Forgot the fever of the fuller light, And sorrow sinks insensibly away As if some saint a cool white hand did lay Upon the brow, and calm the restless brain. The moon looks down with pale impassioned ray— Sufficient for the hour is its pain. Be still and feel the night that hides away earth's stain. Be still and loose the sense of God in you, Be still and send your soul into the all, The vasty distance where the stars shine blue, No longer antlike on the earth to crawl. Released from time and sense of great or small, Float on the pinions of the Night-Queen's wings; Soar till the swift inevitable fall Will drag you back into all the world's small things; Yet for an hour be one with all escapèd things.
Colwyn Philipps.
LXXI
In the Lower Garden
The Rose
WHY do you leave me always here? For me no usefulness is found; I have no beauty anywhere; Will you not tear me from the ground?
The Gardener
Watch ye the lilies how they grow, They neither toil nor make complaint. Look at their gentleness, and know They are a strength to stay the faint.
The Rose
I do not see the lilies, Lord, And I am weary of this waste.
The Gardener
Watch ye the grass upon the sward; The lily never grows in haste.
The Rose
Yea, in the grass I see a stalk; The bending leaves to left and right Fashion a cross beside the walk. Tell me the meaning of this sight.
The Gardener
The lily makes a cross because I planted it to give a sign That what the Word of God once was Shall ever be the truth benign.
The Rose
See on the stem it bows its head Stooping to open unto earth.
The Gardener
So on the cross the Saviour dead Opened to man a second birth.
The Rose
Oh what a lovely yellow bloom, Crown of the richest golden hue! Light from the Garden's open Tomb, Give me a golden flower too!
The Gardener
Know ye the spirit of your kind? It is not Mine to make it so; Colour and form are of the mind; Ponder the lilies, how they blow!
The Rose
Now do I feel a bud of life Springing from out my slender trail.
The Gardener
Soon you will bear the fruit of strife That draws to earth the Holy Grail.
The Rose
Grant me the fulness of Thy grace, An open heart, that ever knows Wisdom and strength Thy love to trace, Blossoming forth a full-blown rose.
The Gardener
Ponder the lilies! Pomp and pride, Wisdom and honour, wealth and dress, Solomon's glory never vied With all the splendour they possess!
The Rose
Give me just wisdom, peace of mind, To be the Watchman of my Tower.
The Gardener
There is no wisdom more to find If you but know this golden flower!
The Rose
While the pure form I contemplate, And note the humble drooping pose, A stirring quickens my estate; The bud becomes a full-blown rose.
The Gardener
Thou must let fall thy petals too, And thou shalt be both pure and great; Thy ruddy splendour, royal hue, Betokens Life Illuminate!
The Rose
O Thou to whom all hearts are pure, Thy prescience telleth my desire!
The Gardener
The lily tells you to endure And pray the Spirit to inspire.
The Rose
This have I done, Lord, from the first, But this is finite, where we dwell, For Living Water, Lord, I thirst; Thou art the Water and the Well!
The Gardener
There is a life beyond the grave; Leave all, unite with Me, and rise Upwards, and bless the One who gave The lily power to make men wise!
H. S. Graham.
March 1916.
LXXII
A Christmas Prayer
From the Trenches
NOT yet for us may Christmas bring Good-will to men, and peace; In our dark sky no angels sing, Not yet the great release For men, when war shall cease.
So must the guns our carols make, Our gifts must bullets be, For us no Christmas bells shall wake; These ruined homes shall see No Christmas revelry.
In hardened hearts we fain would greet The Babe at Christmas born, But lo, He comes with piercèd feet, Wearing a crown of thorn,— His side a spear has torn.
​For tired eyes are all too dim, Our hearts too full of pain, Our ears too deaf to hear the hymn Which angels sing in vain, "The Christ is born again."
O Jesus, pitiful, draw near, That even we may see The Little Child who knew not fear; Thus would we picture Thee Unmarred by agony.
O'er death and pain triumphant yet Bid Thou Thy harpers play, That we may hear them, and forget Sorrow and all dismay, And welcome Thee to stay With us on Christmas Day.
Cyril Winterbotham.
LXXIII
Holy Communion Service, Suvla Bay
BEHOLD a table spread! A battered corned-beef box, a length of twine, An altar-rail of twigs and shreds of string. . . . For the unseen, divine, Uncomprehended Thing A hallowed space amid the holy dead.
Behold a table spread! And on a fair, white cloth the bread and wine, The symbols of sublime compassioning, The very outward sign Of that the nations sing, The body that He gave, the blood He shed.
Behold a table spread! And kneeling soldiers in God's battle-line, A line of homage to a mightier King: All-knowing All-benign! Hearing the prayers they bring, Grant to them strength to follow where He led.
W. H. Littlejohn.