WE are drifting back from the End of Hell to the home we long for so,—

Back from the land of fear and hate that jeers at wounded men;

Maimed and crippled are we to-day, but free from curse or blow—

That we knew too well in the land of Cain, the guarded prisoners' den.

We drift away to the homes we left a thousand years ago,

And there we wait in the Truce of God for the hand of Death to fall,

Waiting aside in hovel or hall—where only neighbours know—

The broken men that the War has left to shun the gaze of all.

Is it nothing to you that pass us by—hurrying on your way,

Whispering low of peace and rest to the tune of a German song?

Only but for the Grace of God you might be where we lay—

With festering wounds in a truck for beasts, the butt of a laughing throng.

Peace and Rest? The peace will come when God shall stay His hand,

And change the heart of the German race that mocks at wounded men.

The rest you seek? What need of that? you fight for a Christian land,

And all Eternity waits for you—what need of rest till then?

We are broken and down in the fight of the world for an end to heathen lust,

But the sword we dropped when the darkness came is yours to handle yet.

If you sheathe the sword for a greed of gold or suffer the steel to rust,

The curse of the captive men be yours—the day when you forget—!