The Song Of The Pacifist
What do they matter, our headlong hates, when we take the toll of our Dead?
Think ye our glory and gain will pay for the torrent of blood we have shed?
By the cheers of our Victory will the heart of the mother be comforted?
If by the Victory all we mean is a broken and brooding foe;
Is the pomp and power of a glitt'ring hour, and a truce for an age or so:
By the clay-cold hand on the broken blade we have smitten a bootless blow!
If by the Triumph we only prove that the sword we sheathe is bright;
That justice and truth and love endure; that freedom's throned on the height;
That the feebler folks shall be unafraid; that Might shall never be Right;
If this be all: by the blood-drenched plains, by the havoc of fire and fear,
By the rending roar of the War of Wars, by the Dead so doubly dear. . . .
Then our Victory is a vast defeat, and it mocks us as we cheer.
Victory! there can be but one, hallowed in every land:
When by the graves of our common dead we who were foemen stand;
And in the hush of our common grief hand is tendered to hand.
Triumph! Yes, when out of the dust in the splendour of their release
The spirits of those who fell go forth and they hallow our hearts to peace,
And, brothers in pain, with world-wide voice, we clamour that War shall cease.
Glory! Ay, when from blackest loss shall be born most radiant gain;
When over the gory fields shall rise a star that never shall wane:
Then, and then only, our Dead shall know that they have not fall'n in vain.
When our children's children shall talk of War as a madness that may not be;
When we thank our God for our grief to-day, and blazon from sea to sea
In the name of the Dead the banner of Peace . . . that will be Victory.
poem by Robert William Service
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Related quotes
An Anthem To Freedom
Were you there when Jesus bled
Before the cross, in sins were dead
By your hand in Christ were led
On to victory
Now's the day and now's the hour
Stand with Christ and stand in power
He's our Rock and strong High Tower
We're free from slavery
So will you come and fight the fight
March in the day and not the night
We will send them all to flight
This will be our day
Free men march and free men die
And all proclaim our God on high
His glory fills the earth and sky
Come Lord soon we pray
In glorious majesty He reigns
He's broken all our wretched chains
On Calvary He took our pains
And death has lost its sting
Now Jesus come and take your place
We lift our eyes, we see your face
Our enemies we now give chase
We serve our glorious King
No longer slaves and dead in sin
New life arises from within
We sing to you a glorious hymn
Of joy and victory
We have arisen from the dead
And follow you who died and bled
And rose victoriously and said
No more slavery
Come now my children, come and see
You once were chained but now are free
Free to live and reign with me
Its time to wield the sword
Its the final day, the final hour
Rain down thy presence, a glorious shower
Its not by might nor any power
But by My Spirit says the Lord
poem by Frank McEleny
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You Hung Me
It's dead, it'd dead you killed it all
you fucked me over, you watched me fall
the life you sucked right out of me
dead you hung me from tree.
My blood spills out onto the ground
it screams, it cries without a sound
there is no victory here for me
dead you hung me from a tree.
You can run but you can't hide
you'll try to say it's suicide
torn apart for all to see
dead you hung me from a tree.
I'll prove to you your world is wrong
your power has gone on way to long
watch my body swing so free
dead you hung me from a tree.
Free from you I find my peace
in a grave that's six feet deep
the cage unlocked, I found the key
dead you hung me from a tree.
poem by CJA Anderson
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To Death
Death! where is thy victory?
To triumph whilst I die,
To triumph whilst thine ebon wing
Enfolds my shuddering soul?
O Death! where is thy sting?
Not when the tides of murder roll,
When nations groan, that kings may bask in bliss,
Death! canst thou boast a victory such as this--
When in his hour of pomp and power
His blow the mightiest murderer gave,
Mid Nature’s cries the sacrifice
Of millions to glut the grave;
When sunk the Tyrant Desolation’s slave;
Or Freedom’s life-blood streamed upon thy shrine;
Stern Tyrant, couldst thou boast a victory such as mine?
To know in dissolution’s void
That mortals’ baubles sunk decay;
That everything, but Love, destroyed
Must perish with its kindred clay,--
Perish Ambition’s crown,
Perish her sceptred sway:
From Death’s pale front fades Pride’s fastidious frown.
In Death’s damp vault the lurid fires decay,
That Envy lights at heaven-born Virtue’s beam--
That all the cares subside,
Which lurk beneath the tide
Of life’s unquiet stream;--
Yes! this is victory!
And on yon rock, whose dark form glooms the sky,
To stretch these pale limbs, when the soul is fled;
To baffle the lean passions of their prey,
To sleep within the palace of the dead!
Oh! not the King, around whose dazzling throne
His countless courtiers mock the words they say,
Triumphs amid the bud of glory blown,
As I in this cold bed, and faint expiring groan!
Tremble, ye proud, whose grandeur mocks the woe
Which props the column of unnatural state!
You the plainings, faint and low,
From Misery’s tortured soul that flow,
Shall usher to your fate.
Tremble, ye conquerors, at whose fell command
The war-fiend riots o’er a peaceful land!
You Desolation’s gory throng
Shall bear from Victory along
To that mysterious strand.
poem by Percy Bysshe Shelley
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On To Victory
Children of the glorious dead,
Who for freedom fought and bled,
With her banner o'er you spread,
On to victory.
Not for stern ambition's prize,
Do our hopes and wishes rise;
Lo, our leader from the skies,
Bids us do or die.
Ours is not the tented field-
We no earthly weapons wield-
Light and love, our sword and shield,
Truth our panoply.
This is proud oppression's hour;
Storms are round us; shall we cower?
While beneath a despot's power
Groans the suffering slave?
While on every southern gale,
Comes the helpless captive's tale,
And the voice of woman's wail,
And of man's despair?
While our homes and rights are dear,
Guarded still with watchful fear,
Shall we coldly turn our ear
From the suppliant's prayer?
Never! by our Country's shame-
Never! by a Saviour's claim,
To the men of every name,
Whom he died to save.
Onward, then, ye fearless band-
Heart to heart, and hand to hand;
Yours shall be the patriot's stand,
Or the martyr's grave.
poem by Anonymous Americas
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The Triumph of the People
LO, the gods of Vice and Mammon from their pinnacles are hurled
By the workers’ new religion, which is oldest in the world;
And the earth will feel her children treading firmly on the sod,
For the triumph of the People is the victory of God.
Not the victory of Churches, nor of Punishment and Wrath,
Not the triumph of the sceptic, throwing shadows on the path,
But of Christ and love and mercy o’er the Monarch and the Rod,
For the harvest of the Saviour is the aftermath of God.
O the Light of Revelation, since the reign of Care began,
Has been shining through the ages on the darkened eyes of man.
And the willing slave of Error—he is senseless as a clod—
For the simple Book of Nature is the written scroll of God.
Who will dare to say the sunlight on the pregnant Earth was shed
That the few might rest and fatten, while the many fight for bread?
Lo, there springs a common garden, where the foot of Greed hath trod,
For the victory of Labour was the prophecy of God.
Mother Earth, in coming seasons, shall fulfil her motherhood;
Then the children of her bosom never more shall want for food,
And oppression shall no longer grind the people iron-shod;
For the lifted hand of Labour is the upraised hand of God.
poem by Henry Lawson
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Today... 'Rabboni
'Why do you look for Jesus amongst the dead'
These were the words the angels to Mary said
Later in the garden she heard You call her name
Then turning around 'Rabboni' was her refrain
The voice she thought she'd never hear again
Came speaking from the grave so clear and plain
There before her in glorious resurrection victory
Stood her Lord, untouchable but alive was He
You're alive! From the dead You have risen
and to You all the power and glory is given
You have risen in the power of an endless life
from the grave in glorious victory over strife
The gates of death You have burst open wide
Setting free all of the prisoners locked inside
'Oh grave you no longer have any hold on me'
Your sting is removed for Jesus holds the key
Death is vanquished and sins powers ceased
Now Satan is defeated and its captives released
Your victory over sin destroyed all of its powers
You have conquered death that final foe of ours.
Raboni, my master, my God and my Lord
Your victory and glory the heavens applaud.
Victor over Satan, Death and the Grave
and risen with power and mighty to save.
(see also the additional information in the Poet's notes box below)
Warriors Of Faith
They search the desert plains
In the land of no return
To seek out the danger, time to burn
They are the rightous ones
Theyve come to claim this land
Like warriors under command
They fight for gold and glory
Proclaim the dead man's land
Into the dungeons they must go
To find the answers, left untold
Under the burning sun
In danger, eye to eye
They all now that someone must die
Into the well theyre falling
Past immortality
Led by temptation and devotion
Rendered deathless by the touch of the sword
Onwards victory, let us hear your battle cry
The enemies, will renounce or die
Hail the warriors of faith
Together they march through the fire
Forever theyre lost in this world
Onwards victory, let us hear your battle cry
The enemies, will renounce or die
Eternally, they will fall under the sign
Of victory, fighting all for one
Hail the the warriors of faith
song performed by by Hammerfall
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Victory
Victory never comes from power over others
Real victory only comes from victory over self
Nothings gained from fighting your brothers’
For victory can’t be purchased “Off the shelf”
poem by Ray Lucero
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Dead And Broken
Too many things I've never spoken
I'm not feeling fine
I never told you what to do
I never made you a promise that you could hold me to
That'll be the day you see me crying
Everyday, I still say you're dead and broken
Everyday, I still say you're dead and broken
You're dead and broken
How many different faces can you show me?
How many times can you be right?
Another world of fantasy
Another reason for dramatizing everything
Taking it all in just one more time
I'm dying
Everyday, I still say you're dead and broken
Everyday, I still say you're dead and broken
You're dead and broken
Sorry to see that you're underestimated lately
I'd rather be dead and broken than living in your grace
Everyday, I still say you're dead and broken
Everyday, I still say you're dead and broken
You're dead and broken
You're dead and broken
You're dead and broken
You're dead and broken
You're dead and broken
You're dead and broken
You're dead and broken
song performed by by Godsmack
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Prayer For The King's Majesty
22nd January, 1901.
THE Queen is dead. God save the King,
In this his hour of grief,
When sorrow gathers memories in a sheaf
To lay them on his shoulders as he stands
Inheriting her glories and her lands--
First gain of his at which his Mother's voice
Has not been first to bless and to rejoice--
A man, set lonely between gain and loss.
(O words of love the heart remembereth,
O mighty loss outweighing every gain!)
A Son whose kingdom Death's arm lies across,
A King whose Mother lies alone with Death
Wrapped in the folds of white implacable sleep.
O God, who seest the tears Thy children weep,
O God, who countest each sad heart-beat, see
How our King needs the grace we ask of Thee!
Thou knowest how little and how vain a thing
Is Empire, when the heart is sick with pain--
God, save the King!
The Queen is dead. The splendour of her days,
The sorrow of them both alike merge now
In the new aureole that lights her brow.
The clamour of her people's voice in praise
Must hush itself to the still voice that prays
In the holy chamber of Death. Tread softly here,
A mighty Queen lies dead.
Her people's heart wears black,
The black bells toll unceasing in their ear,
And on the gold sun's track
The great world round
Like a black ring the voice of mourning goes,
Till even our ancient foes
With eyes downbent, and brotherly bared head,
Keep mourning watch with us. This is the hour
When Love lends all his power
To speed grief's arrows from the bow of Death,
When sighs are idle breath,
When tears are fountains vain.
She will not wake again,
Not now, not here.
O great and good and infinitely dear,
O Mother of your people, sleep is sweet,
No more Life's thorny ways will wound your feet.
O Mother dear, sleep sound!
When you shall wake,
Your brows freed from the crown that made them ache
So many a time, and wear the heavenly crown,
Then, then you will look down
On us who love you, and, remembering,
The love of earth will breathe with us our prayer,
Our prayer prayed here, joined to your prayer prayed there:
Who knows what radiant answer it may bring?
'God save the King!'
The Queen is dead. God save the King!
From all ill thought and deed,
From heartless service and from selfish sway,
From treason, and the vain imagining
Of evil counsellors, and the noisome breed
Of flatterers who eat the soul away,
God save the King!
From loss and pain and tears
Such as her many years
Brought her; from battle and strife,
And the inmost hurt of life,
The wounds that no crown can heal,
No ermine robes conceal,
God save the King!
God, by our memories of his Mother's face,
By the love that makes our heart her dwelling-place,
Grant to our sorrow this desired grace:
God save the King!
* * * * * * * * *
The Queen is dead. God save the King.
This is no hour when joy has leave to sing;
Only, amid our tears, we are bold to pray,
More boldly, in that we pray sorrowing,
In this most sorrowful day.
God, who wast of a mortal Mother born,
Who driest the tears with which Thy children mourn,
God, save the King!
Look down on him whose crown is wet with tears
In which its splendour fades and disappears--
His tears, our tears, tears out of all her lands.
The Queen is dead.
God! strengthen the King's hands!
God, save the King!
poem by Edith Nesbit
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The Dead Woman
If suddenly you do not exist,
if suddenly you are not living,
I shall go on living.
I do not dare,
I do not dare to write it,
if you die.
I shall go on living.
Because where a man has no voice,
there, my voice
Where blacks are beaten,
I can not be dead.
When my brothers go to jail
I shall go with them.
When victory,
not my victory,
but the great victory
arrives,
even though I am mute I must speak:
I shall see it come even though I am blind.
No, forgive me,
if you are not living,
ifd you, beloved, my love,
if you
have died.
poem by Pablo Neruda
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Victory was not mine
The victory was yours.
And it still is victory belongs to you.
Victory was not mine.
You hurt me you hurt me.
You've scared me.
And yet the victory is yours.
You still continue to beat me.
You torture me every day.
Even though you raped me.
You still win.
And the victory is yours.
Its not fair you have the victory.
When you are evil personalised.
You are the peice of scum
poem by Amy Louise Kerswell
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The Queen Of Prussia's Tomb
In sweet pride upon that insult keen
She smiled; then drooping mute and broken-hearted,
To the cold comfort of the grave departed. ~ Milman.
It stands where northern willows weep,
A temple fair and lone;
Soft shadows o'er its marble sweep,
From cypress-branches thrown;
While silently around it spread,
Thou feel'st the presence of the dead.
And what within is richly shrined?
A sculptur'd woman's form,
Lovely in perfect rest reclined,
As one beyond the storm:
Yet not of death, but slumber, lies
The solemn sweetness on those eyes.
The folded hands, the calm pure face,
The mantle's quiet flow,
The gentle, yet majestic grace,
Throned on the matron brow;
These, in that scene of tender gloom,
With a still glory robe the tomb.
There stands an eagle, at the feet
Of the fair image wrought;
A kingly emblem–nor unmeet
To wake yet deeper thought:
She whose high heart finds rest below,
Was royal in her birth and wo.
There are pale garlands hung above,
Of dying scent and hue;–
She was a mother–in her love
How sorrowfully true!
Oh! hallow'd long be every leaf,
The record of her children's grief!
She saw their birthright's warrior-crown
Of olden glory spoil'd,
The standard of their sires borne down,
The shield's bright blazon soil'd:
She met the tempest meekly brave,
Then turn'd o'erwearied to the grave.
She slumber'd; but it came–it came,
Her land's redeeming hour,
With the glad shout, and signal flame
Sent on from tower to tower!
Fast thro' the realm a spirit moved–
'Twas hers, the lofty and the loved.
Then was her name a note that wrung
To rouse bold hearts from sleep;
Her memory, as a banner flung
Forth by the Baltic deep;
Her grief, a bitter vial pour'd
To sanctify th' avenger's sword.
And the crown'd eagle spread again
His pinion to the sun;
And the strong land shook off its chain–
So was the triumph won!
But wo for earth, where sorrow's tone
Still blends with victory's!–She was gone!
poem by Felicia Dorothea Hemans
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The Power Of Thy Sword
Lord of battle I pray on bended knee conquest by the rising sun
I'll wait for thy command with flame and blood at hand
glory and a broken sword.
I'm the master of the world I have no fear of man or beast
Born inside the soul of the world
Riding hard breaking bone with steel and stone
Eternal might I was born to wield.
Let us drink to the battles we've lived and we've fought
Celebrate the pain and havoc we have wrought
Great heroes charge into the fight
From the north to the south in the black of night
The clash of honor calls to stand when others fall
Gods of war feel the power of my sword
Drink to the battles we've lived and we've fought
Celebrate the pain and havoc we have wrought
Great heroes charge into the fight
From the north to the south in the black of night
Fierce is my blade fierce is my hate born to die in battle
I laugh at my fate
Now pay in blood when your blood has been spilled
You're never forgiven death is fulfilled !
The clash of honor calls to stand when others fall
Gods of war feel the power of my sword
The clash of honor calls
I will stand when others fall
Open magic doors
The will know the power of my sword
There is blood in my hands there is blood in my eyes
With blood in my voice I scream as you die
Thirsting for vengeance and mounds of the slain
Shaking the forest onto the plain
Fierce is my blade fierce is my hate born to die in battle
I laugh at my fate
Now pay in blood when your blood has been spilled
You're never forgiven death is fulfilled !
The clash of honor calls to stand when others fall
Gods of war feel the power of my sword
Know the power of my sword
Know the power of my sword
Know the power of my sword
Know the power of my sword
They will know the power of my sword
song performed by by Manowar from The Triumph Of Steel
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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He's mine boasted the grave in victory
‘He's mine' boasted the grave in victory
'He is dead so now he belongs to me'
Mary and Martha gazed on in despair
Wishing that Jesus had been with them there
Then Martha met Jesus coming to Bethany
to share in their deep grief and agony
Then she told Mary who came to see
and fell at His feet weeping helplessly
'Lord if only you had been on the scene
Then Lazarus' death would never have been'
Four days he had lain in Death's sepulchre
far beyond the reach of any earthly care
'Believe in the Resurrection' He said
For He had the power to raise the dead
'Yes I believe that You're the Son of God'
'Whatever You ask will be granted Lord'
'Where have you laid him? ' sadly Jesus sighed
'Come and see, Lord, ' both the women replied.
Seeing their helplessness at the graveside
Deep tears of sorrow the Son of God cried
They opened the tomb, rolled the stone away
Then they heard Jesus in a loud voice say
'Lazarus come out' and amazingly they saw
That he who had been dead was dead no more
'Remove the grave clothing and let him go'
and each semblance of death was removed so
There His power over death Jesus did show
in that town of Bethany long ago
************
I was dead and in sins sepulchre lay
And then I heard the voice of Jesus say
'Roy come forth from the dead', I came to Him
and stood at the cross wrapped in all my sin
He washed me in His blood so pure and clean
I was made the cleanest I'd ever been
Sins linen bands He removed from my soul
and I stood before Him restored and whole
Come witness the miracle taken place
Here stands a poor sinner saved by His grace
For the Holy Spirit has quickened me
And the power of Jesus has set me free
So, grave no longer gloat in victory
You've been conquered by the King of Glory
Death no longer has any hold on me
now that my Lord Jesus has set me free
Written after reading John 11: 17-44
Dead & Broken
Too many things Ive never spoken
Im not feeling fine
I never told you what to do
I never made you a promise that you could hold me to
Thatll be the day you see me crying
Everyday, I still say youre dead and broken
Everyday, I still say youre dead and broken
Youre dead and broken
How many faces can you show me?
How many times can you be right?
Another world of fantasy
Another reason for dramatizing everything
Taking it all in just one more time
Im dying
Everyday, I still say youre dead and broken
Everyday, I still say youre dead and broken
Youre dead and broken
Sorry to see that youre underestimated lately
Id rather be dead and broken than living in your grace
Everyday, I still say youre dead and broken
Everyday, I still say youre dead and broken
Youre dead and broken
Youre dead and broken
Youre dead and broken
Youre dead and broken
Youre dead and broken
Youre dead and broken
Youre dead and broken
song performed by by Godsmack
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The March Of The Dead
The cruel war was over -- oh, the triumph was so sweet!
We watched the troops returning, through our tears;
There was triumph, triumph, triumph down the scarlet glittering street,
And you scarce could hear the music for the cheers.
And you scarce could see the house-tops for the flags that flew between;
The bells were pealing madly to the sky;
And everyone was shouting for the Soldiers of the Queen,
And the glory of an age was passing by.
And then there came a shadow, swift and sudden, dark and drear;
The bells were silent, not an echo stirred.
The flags were drooping sullenly, the men forgot to cheer;
We waited, and we never spoke a word.
The sky grew darker, darker, till from out the gloomy rack
There came a voice that checked the heart with dread:
"Tear down, tear down your bunting now, and hang up sable black;
They are coming -- it's the Army of the Dead."
They were coming, they were coming, gaunt and ghastly, sad and slow;
They were coming, all the crimson wrecks of pride;
With faces seared, and cheeks red smeared, and haunting eyes of woe,
And clotted holes the khaki couldn't hide.
Oh, the clammy brow of anguish! the livid, foam-flecked lips!
The reeling ranks of ruin swept along!
The limb that trailed, the hand that failed, the bloody finger tips!
And oh, the dreary rhythm of their song!
"They left us on the veldt-side, but we felt we couldn't stop
On this, our England's crowning festal day;
We're the men of Magersfontein, we're the men of Spion Kop,
Colenso -- we're the men who had to pay.
We're the men who paid the blood-price. Shall the grave be all our gain?
You owe us. Long and heavy is the score.
Then cheer us for our glory now, and cheer us for our pain,
And cheer us as ye never cheered before."
The folks were white and stricken, and each tongue seemed weighted with lead;
Each heart was clutched in hollow hand of ice;
And every eye was staring at the horror of the dead,
The pity of the men who paid the price.
They were come, were come to mock us, in the first flush of our peace;
Through writhing lips their teeth were all agleam;
They were coming in their thousands -- oh, would they never cease!
I closed my eyes, and then -- it was a dream.
There was triumph, triumph, triumph down the scarlet gleaming street;
The town was mad; a man was like a boy.
A thousand flags were flaming where the sky and city meet;
A thousand bells were thundering the joy.
There was music, mirth and sunshine; but some eyes shone with regret;
And while we stun with cheers our homing braves,
O God, in Thy great mercy, let us nevermore forget
The graves they left behind, the bitter graves.
poem by Robert William Service
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A Victory or Death?
All abhor war but wars are there!
Beyond all means only war comes;
Crossing all line of control of peace
Danger of war begins to decide crisis.
Every means is followed to win war!
Fools or intellectuals, war is a game;
Gaining control over weak is victory!
Human nature succumbs to animal one;
I is what stands before despite justice is
Joining hands with supporters as friends!
Kind and truth loving hearts have no place!
Last resort to save life is surrender only;
Many battles are won with no one to enjoy!
Nobody likes war but none can stop it!
Of all crimes, killing is no crime in war!
Power keeps all at bay with awe in war!
Queen waits for seeing victory of lover;
Rooks, camels and horses die for men;
Soldiers are pawns in the hands of king!
Troops march on, men may win or die!
Universal declaration of peace is illusion;
Victory is the only goal in war of any kind;
World of woes by wars never sees shore!
Xena, the warrior queen is also famous...!
Yesterday, today and tomorrow wars are
Zeroing on targets to kiss victory or death!
poem by Ramesh T A
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The Blood Of Jesus
Every minute, every hour,
The blood of Jesus is the power,
It's the power over sickness and disease,
It's the power that sets you free.
The blood of Jesus will turn your life around,
In your daily life peace will abound,
It will set you free from anxiety,
Through Jesus' blood you will have a victory.
Plead the blood of Jesus without delay,
Pour the blood over bad circumstances today,
Try the blood of Jesus and you will see,
The blood of Jesus means victory.
poem by Elizabeth Skerencak
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The Man in the Arena
The Man in the Arena
Find what you love, to that be true
Care less for what “they“ think of you.
Follow your internal muse
Dare to take risks and pay your dues.
Some such succeed and triumphs gain,
Others strive but all in vain.-
For both their place can never be
Out in the dark periphery.
In the end our lives are spent
Pursing dreams or paying rent
The choice is ours to play our role
Don’t be a cold and timid soul.
Though our faces be marred by dust and sweat
we are the ones they won't forget.
Not the faceless critic in his seat
who knows neither victory nor defeat
J.M.
“The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena; whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs and comes short again and again; who knows the great enthusiasms, the great devotions, and spends himself in a worthy cause; who, at the best, knows in the end the triumph of high achievement; and who, at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who know neither victory nor defeat.”-President Theodore Roosevelt
poem by John F. McCullagh
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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