On a pebly shore, where forevermore <br />Gently creeps a music laden wave -- <br />In the meadows green, which beyond are seen, <br />Camps a conq'ring army, true and brave. <br />Shining are the weapons of this martial throng -- <br />Crimson died their banner, battleworn so long; <br />But now they cast them down, and each receives a crown, <br />Whey they chant their never ending song: <br /> <br />"Our Saviour and our King! <br />His victories shall ring! <br />His conquests thro' eternity shall sound! <br />(And war shall be no) <br />War (more) shall be no more -- <br />we have reach'd the shore -- <br />Safely reach'd our last grand camping ground." <br /> <br />While thro' lovely dells, grander music swells -- <br />Richer chords from rarer harps of gold -- <br />List that soft refrain, that sweet vocal strain, <br />Wherein now the victors' deeds are told: <br />How they toil'd in darkness, battling the wrong -- <br />How, in hours of weakness, Jesus made them strong. <br />Acknowledg'd as his own he seats them on his throne, <br />While they join the never ending song.<br /><br />Henry Clay Work<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/our-last-grand-camping-ground/
