  Ye who in Sorrow's tents abide, Mourning your dead with hidden tears, Bethink you what a wealth of pride They've won you for the coming years. Grievous the pain; but, in the day When all the cost is counted o'er, Would it be best that you should say: "We lost no loved ones in the war"? Who knows? But proud then shall ye stand That best, most honoured boast to make: "My lover died for his dear land", Or, "My son fell for England's sake". Christlike they died that we might live; And our redeemed lives would we bring, With aught that gratitude may give To serve you in your sorrowing. And never a pathway shall ye tread, No foot of seashore, hill, or lea, But ye may think: "The dead, my dead, Gave this, a sacred gift, to me". P. Habberton Lulham By permission of the Author |
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