When It Is Finished

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