Classic Poem

Slain in their high places: fallen on rest
Where the eternal peace lights up their faces,
In God's sacred acre breast to breast: —
Slain in their high places.

From all tribes, all families, all races,
Gathered home together; east or west
Sending home its tale of gifts and graces.

Twine, oh twine, heaven's amaranth for their crest,
Raise their praise while home their triumph paces;
Kings by their own King of kings confessed,
Slain in their high places.