The bugle echoes shrill and sweet, but not of
war it sings to-day. The road is rhythmic with the
feet of men-at-arms who come to pray.
The
roses blossom white and red on tombs where weary
soldiers lie; Flags wave above the honored dead
and martial music cleaves the sky.
Above their
wreath-strewn graves we kneel, they kept the faith
and fought the fight. Through flying lead and crimson
steel they plunged for Freedom and the Right.
May we, their grateful children, learn their
strength, who lie beneath this sod, Who went through
fire and death to earn at last the accolade of God.
In shining rank on rank arrayed
they march, the legions of the Lord; He is their
Captain unafraid, the Prince of Peace...Who brought
a sword.