WHEN it is finished, Father, and we set <br />The war-stained buckler and the bright blade by, <br />Bid us remember then what bloody sweat, <br />What thorns, what agony <br />Purchased our wreaths of harvest and ripe ears, <br />Whose empty hands, whose empty hearts, whose tears <br />Ransomed the days to be. <br /> <br />We leave them to Thee, Father, we've no price, <br />No utmost treasure of the seas and lands, <br />No words, no deeds, to pay their sacrifice. <br />Only while England stands, <br />Their pearl, their pride, their altar, not their grave, <br />Bid us remember in what days they gave <br />All that mankind may give <br />That we might live.<br /><br />Marjorie Lowry Christie Pickthall<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/when-it-is-finished/
