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Don't think, in my grief, I'm complaining;
I gave him, God took him; 'tis right;
And the cry of his mother remaining
Shall strengthen his comrades in fight.
Nor for vengeance, to-day, in my weeping,
Goes my prayer to the Infinite Throne.
God pity the foe when he's reaping
The harvest of what he has sown!
Tell his comrades these words of his mother:
All over the wide land to-day,
The Rachels, who weep with each other,
Together in agony pray.
They know, in their great tribulation,
By the blood of their children outpoured,
We shall smite down the foes of the Nation,
In the terrible day of the Lord.
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