The War Lord dwells within his palace walls
In all the bright insignia of power;
He gives the word by which a city falls,
Or ships go thundering through Death’s awful hour.
The Prince of Peace knew not an earthly throne,
Had not one resting place to call his own.
The War Lord in the pomp of place doth ride
Across the borders of the blood-drenched land.
On splendid charger, strong and fiery-eyed
In every place he keeps a presence grand.
The Prince of Peace knew but a humble seat
And walked the earth with weary, dusty feet.
The War Lord hears the plaudits of the crowd.
Unnumbered men would perish for his name.
To keep his royal robes they wear a shroud,
And bleed to save him from an hour of shame.
The Prince of Peace with thorns upon his head,
Unfriended, through the hard-eyed crowd was led.
The while the War Lord speaks the myriad waits,
And at his word it cannot choose but die.
His armored hand is laid upon the gates
Of life and death. What matter reasons why?
In one dark hour of loving agony
The Prince of Peace expired upon a tree.