THERE is an unseen battle-field,
In every human breast,
Where two opposing forces meet,
And where they seldom rest. That field is veiled from mortal sight;
'Tis only seen by One,
Who knows alone where victory lies,
When each day's fight is done. One army clusters strong and fierce,—
Their chief of demon form;
His brow is like the thunder cloud,
His voice the bursting storm. His captains—Pride, and Lust, and Hate,
Whole troops watch night and day;
Swift to detect the weakest point,
And thirsting for the prey. Contending with this mighty force,
Is but a little band;
Yet there, with an unquailing front,
Those warriors firmly stand! Their leader is of Godlike form,
Of countenance serene;
And glowing on his naked breast
A naked cross is seen. His captains—Faith, and Hope, and Love,
Point to that wondrous sign;
And gazing on it, all receive
Strength from a source divine. They feel it speaks a glorious truth—
A truth as great as sure;
But, to be victors, they must learn
To love, confide, endure. That faith sublime, in wildest strife,
Imparts a holy calm;
For every deadly blow a shield,
For every wound a balm. And when they win the battle-field,
Past toil is quite forgot;
The place where carnage once had reigned,
Becomes a hallowed spot: A spot where flowers of joy and peace
Spring from the fertile sod,
And breathe the perfume of their praise,
On every breeze, to God.