Lord, we have made an honest fight
And won the victory;
We fought as men who love the right,
Fiercely and fearlessly;
And now we turn aside and give
Our trembling thanks to Thee.
Lord, it is not for us to drink
The salt cup of defeat,
And victory is glorious,
And victory is sweet;
Yet still we bow our heads and lay
Our laurels at Thy feet.
It is not for Americans
To boast that they have slain
The heroes who have fought and bled
For their belovéd Spain;
Nay,—help us to remember, Lord,
That they have died in vain.
Not sweet can it be, Lord, to Thee,
But grievous in Thy sight,
For nations to rise up in wrath
And man with man to fight, —
Each thinking his the only truth,
And his the only right.
But, Lord, the need was, and we fought
Fiercely and fearlessly;
And still less sweet would it be now—
More grievous—unto Thee
For us to blow the trumpet loud
In boastful jubilee.
So check the tumult of our joy,
And hush the rising cheers;
We have the splendid victory,
And they the blistering tears;
For us the laurel wreaths; for them
Defeat that burns and sears.
It is the time for thought; the time
For noble silence, Lord;
To-day the mourning-dove of peace
Thro’ all our land is heard;
To Thee alone Americans
Kiss and give up the sword.
For nations to rise up in wrath
And man with man to fight, —
Each thinking his the only truth,
And his the only right.
But, Lord, the need was, and we fought
Fiercely and fearlessly;
And still less sweet would it be now—
More grievous—unto Thee
For us to blow the trumpet loud
In boastful jubilee.
So check the tumult of our joy,
And hush the rising cheers;
We have the splendid victory,
And they the blistering tears;
For us the laurel wreaths; for them
Defeat that burns and sears.
It is the time for thought; the time
For noble silence, Lord;
To-day the mourning-dove of peace
Thro’ all our land is heard;
To Thee alone Americans
Kiss and give up the sword.
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