WHERE THE BATTLE RAGES

   EVER-ROLLING STREAM   Turning memories, grey and dim Humming still a sweet, old, hymn Through streets long levelled or cut in twain Where most has changed or slid away  Lonesome outposts, old and bold  Withstand a while the ceaseless roll   Far too sparse, far too few The old has drowned in the new!  Our kindly clock yet tolls away  Remembers still our yesterdays   Chimes that mourn a fleeting past Days that never could hold fast   Flows on that ever rolling stream Thief of hope and bane of dreams! Steals the final shoals of sand On which we stragglers vainly stand  Till with a sigh another fails Sinks slowly down and slips away 

  IF MY PEOPLE  The hour is late, the dark is deep The wind we sowed now is reaped A time to sit alone appalled Sundry weighty words recall  Words we cite but ever shun   Have often said but never done   If we'd turn and seek His face We'd find there is abundant grace  If we'd rise, forsake our beds  Afflict our frames and bow our heads He'd bear His arm and show His hand Heal our hearts and heal our land Heaven's close and gracious still  It's promise firm, of iron will   Forever will those words be true  That oft we say but are yet to do

  CHRISTMAS MOURNING Peering through a frost-free-pane With fading hope for festal gain Magic of a child-like kind That snowy Morn we long to find But skies of sullen steelish grey Interdict my happy Dickens Day And only distant tinny bells  Can raise the ghosts of past Noels Mourn a world beyond recall And shades who've yet to come at all