An' Thou art God, and be not one
With the god of the hun—Behold Thy Son!
Only belov'd begotten Son
And see with Thine eyes what the hun hath done.
See how His tender temples bleed!
How they have mocked Him in their scorn—
Thrust in his hands a withered reed
To hail Him King—Thine only born—
And crowned His shrinking brow with thorn!
Where must He pass—Lord Christ—Thy Son?
Calvary looms in the West again:—
We thought the sad world lost and won
When He died on the Cross for the sins of men.
Must He die again? And where? And when?
Where, in their hell, the heathen rage,
The hun's imperial priest appears
Smeared with the blood of youth and age
Dragging his god that nods and leers
Dripping with murdered children's tears.
God of the bright, swift sword, how long?
Moloch rides with the swinish hun:—
The boche is boasting with shout and song
That Thou and his bestial god are one,—
Thou and Moloch and Christ, Thy Son!
ROBERT W. CHAMBERS.
New York, April 30, 1918.
