Not disabled from the service,
No, nor absent from your post,
You are doing gallant duty
Where the Master needs you most.
It was noble to give battle
While the world stood cheering on;
It is nobler to lie patient,
Leaving half one's work undone;
Or to stand, still cheerful-hearted,
One among the chosen few,
Who, "detached for special service,"
Are to suffer, not to do.
For God metes to each his measure,
And the sick man's patient prayer,
No less than ball and bayonet,
Brings the victory unaware.
Eyes that smile on through their anguish,
Sighs on sighs choked bravely down,
All the thin hands folded meekly,
Letting go the wished-for crown;
All the strong hearts learning patience,
All the faint hearts learning trust,
Cry out loudly as a death-cry,
"Great God! our cause is just!"
Above the narrow bedside,
When the wan, white face grows calm,
Bend invisible bright angels
With the laurel and the palm;
And the King counts up his heroes
Where the desperate charge is led,
But writes "My Best Beloved,"
Over the sick man's bed!