Instead of uniform, maybe just skin of a deer,

For weapons he carried only a club or a spear,

An up-to-date squaddie, overburdened with gear,

They had one thing in common: stark battle-ground fear.

At Crecy, Corunna, Cambrai, Cassino or Caen

The same gut-wrenching terror afflicted every man.

They quelled it by fortitude, fury – or prayer

Urgent pleas to the Lord when the death-threat was there.

From battle-axe, arrow, land-mine or grenade,

Cries to the Almighty for protection were made.

There were no agnostics when shrapnel was flying.

Now think of the others, the grieving and crying.

In mansion or cave, in palace or humble abode,

Peasant or princess, in fashion or painted with woad.

Their hurts were those felt by the ones left alone,

Their wounds pierced as deeply as in their men’s flesh and bone.

No stretcher-bearers for them, no aid-post to care,

For their anguish at seeing the empty chair.

Or the dread he returned to them blinded or lame,

Different prayers were offered, but the need was the same.

Not from a parson or priest, not from family nor friends

But the comfort that only from Heaven descends:

The Lord’s all-healing hand bringing them solace and peace,

From both fear and from grief He grants blessed release.

And yet still it goes on, somewhere every day;

Mankind seems unable to find another way

Of dealing with power-lust, envy, anger or greed,

God grant men the wisdom they lack to succeed.