The Death Of Grant
Father! whose hard and cruel law Is part of thy compassion's plan, Thy works presumptuously we
For what the prophets say they saw.
Unbidden still the awful slope Walling us in we climb to gain Assurance of the shining
That faith has certified to hope.
In vain! — beyond the circling hill The shadow and the cloud abide. Subdue the doubt, our spirits
To trust the record and be still.
To trust it loyally as he Who, heedful of his high design, Ne'er raised a seeking eye to thine,
But wrought thy will unconsciously.
Disputing not of chance or fate, Nor questioning of cause or creed: For anything but duty's
Too simply wise, too humbly grave.
The cannon syllabled his name; His shadow shifted o'er the land, Portentous, as at his
Successive battalions sprang to flame!
He flared the continent with fire, The rivers ran in lines of light! Thy will be done on earth — if
Or wrong he cared not to inquire.
His was the heavy hand, and his The service of the despot blade; His the soft answer that
War's giant animosities.
Let us have peace: our clouded eyes, Fill,
Father, with another light, That we may see with clearer
Thy servant's soul in Paradise.
Ambrose Bierce
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