Quivers of fear are shaking its depths at the curse of war.
Weeping, we see the crosses over our soldier-martyrs
Sleeping at last, while terror rides on his crimson steed.
Praying for war's cessation while on our knees we worship,
Saying, "Thy will be done," then leaving the rest to God
Never will bring right's triumph, lighten our cross of sorrow;
Ever we all must toil our utmost to bring release.
After the long dark night when dawn is breaking in glory,
Laughter will flow from hearts erasing the spirit-scars.
Winging to Heaven, our joy will be an anthem. The angels
Ringing white carillons will sound the Millennial Gong.
The Archer
First in Arabesque Div., Head-Rhyme Contest
