We had forgotten You, or very nearly--
You did not seem to touch us very nearly--
Of course we thought about You now and then;
Especially in any time of trouble--
We knew that you were good in time of trouble--
But we were very ordinary men.
And there were always other things to think of--
There's lots of things a man has got to think of--
His work, his home, his pleasure, and his wife;
And so we only thought of You on Sunday--
Sometimes, perhaps, not even on a Sunday--
Because there's always lots to fill one's life.
And, all the while, in street or lane or byway--
In country lane, in city street, or byway--
You walked among us, and we did not see.
Your feet were bleeding as You walked our pavements--
How did we miss Your footprints on our pavements?--
Can there be other folk as blind as we?
Now we remember; over here in Flanders--
(It isn't strange to think of You in Flanders)--
This hideous warfare seems to make things clear.
We never thought about You much in England--
But now that we are far away from England--
We have no doubts, we know that You are here.
You helped us pass the jest along the trenches--
Where, in cold blood, we waited in the trenches--
You touched its ribaldry and made it fine.
You stood beside us in our pain and weakness--
We're glad to think You understand our weakness--
Somehow it seems to help us not to whine.
We think about You kneeling in the Garden--
Ah, God, the agony of that dread Garden--
We know You prayed for us upon the cross.
If anything could make us glad to bear it--
'Twould be the knowledge that You willed to bear it--
Pain--death--the uttermost of human loss.
Though we forgot You--You will not forget us--
We feel so sure that You will not forget us--
But stay with us until this dream is past.
And so we ask for courage, strength, and pardon--
Especially, I think, we ask for pardon--
And that You'll stand beside us to the last.
_L.W. in London "Spectator."_