The Death Of Grant poem – Ambrose Bierce poems | Poems and Poetry

Father! whose hard and cruel law

Is part of thy compassion’s plan,

Thy works presumptuously we scan

For what the prophets say they saw.

Unbidden still the awful slope

Walling us in we climb to gain

Assurance of the shining plain

That faith has certified to hope.

In vain! – beyond the circling hill

The shadow and the cloud abide.

Subdue the doubt, our spirits guide

To trust the record and be still.

To trust it loyally as he

Who, heedful of his high design,

Ne’er raised a seeking eye to thine,

But wrought thy will unconsciously.

Disputing not of chance or fate,

Nor questioning of cause or creed:

For anything but duty’s deed

Too simply wise, too humbly grave.

The cannon syllabled his name;

His shadow shifted o’er the land,

Portentous, as at his demand

Successive battalions sprang to flame!

He flared the continent with fire,

The rivers ran in lines of light!

Thy will be done on earth – if right

Or wrong he cared not to inquire.

His was the heavy hand, and his

The service of the despot blade;

His the soft answer that allayed

War’s giant animosities.

Let us have peace: our clouded eyes,

Fill, Father, with another light,

That we may see with clearer sight

Thy servant’s soul in Paradise.