Classic Poem

Over the autumn sea
He comes, our own to be:
A man in every part —
Or mind, or soul, or heart:
He, from the tyrant's rod
Who saved our smiling sod,
Hand of the Hand of God.

No lover of the sword
Till Justice gave the word;
No hater of his kind,
Yet not to hatred blind;
When desolation trod
To slime his smiling sod,
Hand of the Hand of God.

With him we kept our course
That Right should conquer Force,
How can that compact cease?
Lest Memory should nod
And lose the path we trod,
Hark to his voice of peace —
Voice of the Voice of God.