Dudley H. Harris
Hear our prayers, O! gentle Jesus,
Send Thine angels down to ease us
From the pains of Hell that seize us,
From our burning, yearning thirst.
We are broken, we are battered,
Bodies twisted, crushed and shattered
By the shells and bullets scattered
On this strip of land accurst.
Round about are shadows creeping,
Formless Things which wake the sleeping,
Glaring eyes from shell-holes peeping,
Mocking always at our pain.
Cold and wet our limbs are numbing,
Fevered brows are drumming, drumming—
Are the stretchers never coming?
Are we numbered with the slain?
God in Heaven, canst Thou hear us?
Mary Mother! Dost Thou fear us?
Stretcher-bearers, are you near us?
Give us water or we die!
But a grisly shadow's creeping
With his cruel scythe a-reaping
Weary souls which fall to sleeping
In a choking, croaking sigh.
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