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Processional
Not for a flaunted flag, O God,
Not for affronted power,
Not for a scurrile hope of gain,
Not for the pride of an hour,
Not for vengeance, hot in the heart,
Now have we swung to war!
Not for a weak mistrust lest peace
Is a shame strong men abhor.
Not for glory—for oh, to kill
Should be a sacred wrath:
Not for these! but to war on war
And sweep it from earth's path!
Patient has been our creed, till now,
Patient, too, our hope,
Patient for long our loathful deed.
For the just in doubt must grope.
But with a foe at last arrayed
Against the whole world's right.
You, O soul of the universe,
Your very self must fight.
You yourself; so but one prayer
Need we to lift—but one,
That by our battle shall all war
Be utterly undone.
CALE YOUNG RICE.
