Words

The tread of Time is marked with blood

Of warriors slain ‘neath battle’s flood,

Where kings and armies came to blows

And cursed fore’er their hated foes.

Those weapons, forged in anger hot,

Now ‘neath the soil decay and rot;

And battles waged with fire and sword

Have long since passed to books of lore.

Yet, when the wars have long been dead,

What spurs men on, to joy or dread,

Or hastens feet upon the path,

And bids them hope to find at last?

’Tis not the clash of hot-forged steel
That helps the generations heal,

Nor bloody cries of fighting fierce

That makes the stiff neck bend an ear.

For words burn long upon the heart

Far longer than the archer’s dart,

And pass for ages through the minds

Of those who truth would seek, and find.