A War Cry.
Up, up! God’s children in the land;
Ye little feeble scattered band!
From east and west, and south and north,
Bring all your gathering numbers forth!
God has a mighty work to do,
And asks for workers only you.
White-headed sires, and sturdy youth,
And babes with eyes of holy truth,
And women mild as mothers are,
And stout men girded for the war;
Gather, with earnestness of face,
And arm ye well with new-sought grace.
Men! ye must go to far-off lands,
Ye must grasp, as a brother’s, polluted hands;
Ye must stand in the ways of sin and call
With a voice like a trumpet over all,
And pray, till the heart of God ye bend
That the will of Satan may have an end.
Ye must pray and work, and must never faint,
Wade in channels of sin, and, pure as saint,
Shake off pollution, and tutor each day
Some sinking brother to rise and pray;
If ye faint — if ye fail in the deadly strife,
Ye are not worthy the crown of life.
Women must rule with holy grace —
Each on the throne of her own sweet place —
And must train the young souls of a future race
To look unto God, and Him only, for grace:
So shall earth hate the Demon Sin,
And God and His hosts shall enter in.
Young children can sing, in their tiny tones,
Of the power of love that never disowns
The weakest effort whose soul is right,
And brightens the darkest, despairing night,
And is working behind the curtained skies,
Even above faith’s purified eyes.
The banner is spread with its watchword Do!
The trumpet is pealing for you, and you:
Gather, ye lovers of secret prayer,
Gather, ye lovers of Christ the Fair;
From every corner of every land,
Gather to battle, ye chosen band.
Menie Parkes, Poems, F. Cunninghame, Sydney, , pages 107-108
[Editor: Corrected “my have” to “may have”.]