The Enemy
From darkest night to early dawn
The guns sound loud with no abate;
The feeble sun is looking on
Blood splattered fields of hate.
As if desired to rise again
A sudden sound from the dark;
From the fields of waving grain
The soaring sound of a lark.
A sweet torrent of melody
Was showered from the sky;
A new fleet winged enemy,
That can't be hushed though we try.
There she flew on joyful wings;
With outspread feathers of fleece,
Tossing hopes of such strange things,
As pleasure, joy and peace.
Singer of songs, you must know,
That we on earth make hell;
Or is it that your song must show,
That perhaps all is well?
Fearless wings, fly not in vain,
For they soar in a sky so blue;
And we who love war's red stain,
Lift eyes to see heaven too!
Copyright © Elizabeth Wesley | Year Posted 2011
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