THE CROSS
Two narrow strips of common wood,
Rough made by unskilled hands,
Now mark the spot where our boys fell,
In all these distant lands.
On battle fields of hard-won ground
They sleep where they did fall;
Their grave is not in well-planned plot,
Surrounded by a wall.
But comrades in the midst of fight
Took time out for a spell;
And said a prayer, and formed a cross,
Above where he had fell.
Or to the rear for those who died
From wounds beyond our aid,
A cemetary so neatly kept
In row on row are laid.
We see them there in lands so bleak
Along the roadside way;
A lonely sight we won't forget:
That is the price they pay.
The crosses are like sentries proud,
As those men were in life;
Their symbol means that they live on
Just as before this strife.
Oh, silent cross, you mean so much,
So proudly standing there;
The lvoed ones of those soldiers brave
Now offer up a prayer.
Oh, let this be our final fight,
ANd all our conflicts cease;
Where man may dwell in fellowship
And everlasting Peace.
THE AUTHOR "HANGING OUT THE WASHING ON THE SIEGRIED LINE".
April 1945
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