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THE WOUNDED SOLDIER.
In the still midnight hour
No other sound is heard;
The weary hands fall helpless
That wielded well the sword.
No other sound is heard;
The weary hands fall helpless
That wielded well the sword.
There is no song of triumph,
And none the chaplet twine,
O weak and wounded soldier,
For that pale brow of thine.
And none the chaplet twine,
O weak and wounded soldier,
For that pale brow of thine.
Hath earth no balm to bring him?
Hath love no word to speak,
As in the dust he lieth,
With heart so nigh to break?
Hath love no word to speak,
As in the dust he lieth,
With heart so nigh to break?
For fierce the foe that found him,
(And who his power can scan?)
Oh, is there none to succor
That sad and lonely man?
(And who his power can scan?)
Oh, is there none to succor
That sad and lonely man?
Not earth, with all its glories
Could solace now impart;
Nor earthly love, the dearest,
Uphold that sinking heart.
Could solace now impart;
Nor earthly love, the dearest,
Uphold that sinking heart.
But see! the Man of Sorrows
Comes where His soldier lies;
He marks the lip that quivers
In untold agonies.
Comes where His soldier lies;
He marks the lip that quivers
In untold agonies.
