THE CHINK.

Observer, Volume XXXV, Issue 49, 14 August 1915, Page 11

THE CHINK.

How terrible the double fight Of death with death, of Right with Might. Weeping, I listen and I wait . The might grows) dark, the night grows late . . . Still gird the guns, but now a pause, And lb, a chink of night withdraws And soft and joyful, thin andl high, I hear the lost and human cry: The victors and victorious slain, The conquered and their dead again, Sing: "We have slain, a Foeman tall Death, the dreadest Foe of all." For by payment of the toll— Sundered flesh and smitten soul— Bound with our own bloodied bands One is given in our hands. For the steel that slit our side Has his red hands crucified. We have made a gain of loss— Giant War hangs on his cross. Nothing fair has man assayed But by loss his gain was made; Giant War is slain, but still Live more giants that do ill. Sword and Trowel each to band On the scaffold take your stand', Guard and build what we began, Man's Jerusalem for man. Robert Nicholls, r.f.a., In "London Time 6."