The wound is deeply wrought, and I,
Will never see the day,
Can I, so young, be meant to die,
Upon this foreign clay?
A crimson stain spreads o'er my chest,
My eye begins to glaze,
I pray to God to grant me rest,
And hold me in His grace.
I hear a voice, not loud, not clear,
The dark is closing fast,
Again, again, it screams "He's here!"
And, then, I hear my last.
He holds my hand, the Shining One,
White messenger from God,
He says my life has just begun,
And lifts me from the sod.
The gates are wide, a golden home,
With golden streets I trod,
I bow as I behold a throne,
Behold! The Throne of God.
"Dear soldier", He addresses me,
"Your mortal fight is won,
I grant you leave, now taste and see,
the glory of the Son!"
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