At the eleventh hour, Lord,
We beg thee for reprieve,
That stand before thy naked sword
And have begun to grieve.
Shall all of this result in naught,
The sum of human effort,
Battles that humankind has fought,
The ideals for which suffered?
Our knowledge grew, but wisdom lagged;
We learnt the truth, but choosing
Another course, our spirit fagged,
Our creeds fit for opposing.
So many needless harms we wrought,
So much beauty destroying,
Becoming frantic and distraught
With conscience pangs annoying.
Return the judgement to thy sheath,
If man might have a turning,
Or, dust to dust, lay us beneath
World’s vanity a-burning.