On to Armageddon by C. M. Snow

Review and Herald Publishing Association · Takoma Park Station, Washington, D. C. · Oct 22, 1914

On to Armageddon

By C. M. Snow

C. M. SNOW

I HEAR the clank of sword and lance, And the terrible, thund'rous tread Of hurrying hoofs, where chargers prance O'er the living and the dead.

Far down on the desert's sun-swept sand Or in tropic isles afar, The white man's hand has drenched the land, And left war's livid scar.

Ye mowed with sickle of shrapnel shell, Your scythe a Maxim gun, Where rank on rank the dark men fell, The white men, one by one.

Go view the place where they went down, And count them, ye who can— The ones who mocked the white man's frown And fell in the battle's van.

Now sullen and silent and low they lie, And pierced and shattered and torn, And the one who breathes that moaning cry Was singing but yester morn.

Then dig for them deeply, tumble them in, Bruised and bloody and bare; For that was the burden of those who win As you've been winning there.

But judge ye not, O men who seek The canon-studded field, That earth holds only foes so weak As those ye've taught to yield.

For what the white man there has done The white man now will do, When earth's great battle is begun And whites are facing you.

Sound if ye will, yet must you know That when the blast is blown, 'Tis not the arm that bends a bow That's matched against your own.

The serried ranks of other lands Swift hasten to that fray; And, win or lose, more skillful hands Will grapple in that day.

Think of it not as vacant dream, This conflict soon to be, When Armageddon is agleam With far-sent soldiery.

No holy form will go before To stay the slaughtering hand When white men try the white man's war Up in the white man's land.

I see the flower of manhood there— The best the nations breed, From every tribe a plenteous share— War's hungry maw to feed.

The bloom of youth is on the brow, And vigor in the limb; But only Death rides victor now, And Satan over him.

What reeks to him the pains ye bore, Ye souls who gave them birth, If he may gird your sons for war And sweep them from the earth?

To every land his minions fly To fan the flames of hate, And send the strongest forth to die And leave you desolate.

The day draws on, that fearful day, When every land shall feel The war throb of the final fray, The thrust of cruel steel.

In Fury's blistering furnace glow The white-hot shafts of death, And soon through every land will blow The war god's withering breath.

What means this tramp of marching feet? What mean these shouts of war, These belching guns, this air-borne fleet No warrior knew of yore?

What mean these heaps of ruins gray Where once were cities fair, Where Desolation has its day And human hearts despair?

Ah, 'tis the day by prophets told; The judgment hastens on; Our reeling earth is waxing old; Its night is well-nigh gone.

We hasten on through fire and flood, Through battle-driven spray, Through ruined hopes, through fields of blood, Toward Armageddon's day.