THE BATTLEFIELD | AdventAI

Pacific Press Publishing Company · Oakland, California · Aug 10, 1904

FromSigns of the Times, Vol. 30, No. 32.

THE BATTLEFIELD.

A desert place where grew no kindly herb; A waste of sand where splintered rocks lay dead, Where rivulets flowed not, nor flowers swayed— And smiting rays fell from the sun o'erhead.

One lonely figure robed in ashen gray, Whose patient eyes saw nothing, seeing all; Nor marked the shadows' slow-revolving course, The flush of dawn, the purple darkness' fall.

There rode no hosts led on by warrior kings; No trumpets sang; there waved no banners gay; No fierce assaults routed quick retreats, But silent hours wore out the night, the day.

Alone against a world the Leader stood— Alone where ages met the parting ways, To guide aright whoever seeks the light, To shame from wrong with level, loving gaze.

There was the battle waged, the victory won, That conquered conquerors, that high above All greatness, glory, power, and all law Forever fixed the empery of love.

There triumphed He, our Conqueror and King, Who won for us, and made all earth His prize; Who gave His life for victory over death, Who fell that mankind evermore should rise.

—The Century.