quote · Legacy record

“Peace,” shall the world outwearied ever see Its universal reign? Will states, will kings, Put down these murderous and unholy things, Which fill the earth with blood and misery? Will nations learn that love—not enmity— Is heaven’s first lesson—which beneath the wings Of mercy, brooding over land and sea, Fills earth with joy by its soft ministerings? ’Twere a sad prospect—’twere a vista dark As midnight—could this wearied mortal eye, Through the dim mists that veil futurity, Discern not that heaven-bright though distant spark, Lighted by prophecy, whose ray sublime Sheds a soft gleam of hope o’er the dull path of time. I hate that noisy drum, it is a sound That tells of war, of bondage, and I blush That liberty had ever cause to rush Into a warrior’s arms; that right e’er found Asylum in the furious field. Not so The holy crowns of genuine glory grow; Not there should they who bear the badge serene Of Him who was the Prince of Peace, be seen; Can such His faithful followers be?—Oh no! His laurels are not drenched in blood,—but green And beautiful as spring:—His arms are love And mercy and forgiveness; and with them He rules the nations’ mighty destinies And gently leads us to our homes above.

“Peace,” shall the world outwearied ever see Its universal reign? Will states, will kings, Put down these murderous and unholy things, Which fill the earth with blood and misery? Will nations learn that love—not enmity— Is heaven’s first lesson—which beneath the wings Of mercy, brooding over land and sea, Fills earth with joy by its soft ministerings? ’Twere a sad prospect—’twere a vista dark As midnight—could this wearied mortal eye, Through the dim mists that veil futurity, Discern not that heaven-bright though distant spark, Lighted by prophecy, whose ray sublime Sheds a soft gleam of hope o’er the dull path of time. I hate that noisy drum, it is a sound That tells of war, of bondage, and I blush That liberty had ever cause to rush Into a warrior’s arms; that right e’er found Asylum in the furious field. Not so The holy crowns of genuine glory grow; Not there should they who bear the badge serene Of Him who was the Prince of Peace, be seen; Can such His faithful followers be?—Oh no! His laurels are not drenched in blood,—but green And beautiful as spring:—His arms are love And mercy and forgiveness; and with them He rules the nations’ mighty destinies And gently leads us to our homes above.

In print by 1888 AD · industrial

Recorded in a printed collection by this date; the original date of these words is still unknown.