If thro’ the roar o’ the guns one prayer may reach Thee,
Lord of all Life, whose mercies never sleep,
Not in our time, not now, Lord, we beseech Thee
To grant us peace. The sword has bit too deep.
We may not rest. We hear the wail of mothers
Mourning the sons who fill some nameless grave:
Past us, in dreams, the ghosts march of our brothers
Who were most valiant . . . whom we could not save.
We may not rest. What though our eyes be holden,
In sleep we see dear eyes wet with tears,
And locks that once were, oh, so fair and golden,
Grown grey in hours more pitiless than years.
We see all fair things fouled—homes love’s hands builded
Shattered to dust beside their withered vines,
Shattered the towers that once Thy sunsets gilded,
And Christ stuck yet again within his shrines
Over them hangs the dust of death, beside them
The dead lie countless—and the foe laughs still;
We may not rest, while those cruel mouths deride them,
We, who were prod, yet could not work Thy will.
We have failed—we have been more weak than these betrayers—
In strength or in faith we have failed; our pride was vain.
How can we rest, who have not slain the slayers?
What peace for us, who have seen Thy children slain?
Hark, the roar grows . . . the thunders reawaken—
We ask one thing, Lord, only one thing now:
Hearts high as theirs, who went to death unshaken,
Courage like theirs to make and keep their vow.
To stay not till these hosts whom mercies harden,
Who know no glory save of sword and fire,
Find in our fire the splendour of Thy pardon,
Meet from our steel the mercy they desire . . .
Then to our children there shall be no handing
Of fates so vain—of passions so abhorr’d . . .
But Peace . . . the Peace which passeth understanding . . .
Not in our time . . . but in their time, O Lord.
From: https://warpoets.org.uk/worldwar1/blog/poem/before-the-assault/
Date: 1916
By: Robert Ernest Vernède (1875-1917)