<font color="#ffccff"> The soldier stood and faced his God
Which must always come to pass
He hoped his shoes were shining
Just as brightly as his brass.

"Step forward now, you soldier,
How shall I deal with you?
Have you always turned the other cheek?
To My Church have you been true?

The soldier squarred his shoulders
And said "No Lord, I guess I ain't
Because those of us who carry guns
Can't always be a saint.

I've had to work most Sundays
And at times my talk was tough.
And sometimes I've been violent,
Because the world is awfully rough.

But I never took a penny
That wasn't mine to keep....
Though I worked a lot of overtime
When the bills just got too steep.

And I never passed a cry for help,
Though at times I shook with fear,
And sometimes, God forgive me,
I've wept unmanly tears.

I know I don't deserve a place
Among the people here.
They never wanted me around
Except to calm their fears.

If you've a place for me here, Lord,
It needn't be so grand,
I've never had that much in life,
So if you don't I'll understand.

There was silence all around the throne
Where the saints had often trod,
As the soldier waited quietly,
For the judgement of his God.

"Step forward now you soldier
You've borne your burdens well,
Walk peacefully on Heaven's streets,
You've done your time in Hell."

To all that serve.</font>

<font color="#ffccff">Well I thought it was nice.</font>

it is a good poem MagiK. Who wrote it?

It is a very nice thought. [img]smile.gif[/img]

Thats awsome, thanks for posting MagiK [img]smile.gif[/img]

Not to let you think it went un-noticed, MagiK. I sent it to the military folks and vets I know (incl. my dad).

Smile, Smile, Smile

Head to limp head, the sunk-eyed wounded scanned
Yesterday's Mail; the casualties (typed small)
And (large) Vast Booty from our Latest Haul.
Also, they read of Cheap Homes, not yet planned;
For, said the paper, "When this war is done
The men's first instinct will be making homes.
Meanwhile their foremost need is aerodromes,
It being certain war has just begun.
Peace would do wrong to our undying dead, -- -
The sons we offered might regret they died
If we got nothing lasting in their stead.
We must be solidly indemnified.
Though all be worthy Victory which all bought,
We rulers sitting in this ancient spot
Would wrong our very selves if we forgot
The greatest glory will be theirs who fought,
Who kept this nation in integrity."
Nation? -- - The half-limbed readers did not chafe
But smiled at one another curiously
Like secret men who know their secret safe.
This is the thing they know and never speak,
That England one by one had fled to France
(Not many elsewhere now save under France).
Pictures of these broad smiles appear each week,
And people in whose voice real feeling rings
Say: How they smile! They're happy now, poor things.

Wilfred Owen, 23rd September 1918.

So did I. I just didn't feel the need to comment.
This forum needs a 'views' counter so that you can see that your posts have actually been read...

...Ziroc? [img]smile.gif[/img]

Or perhaps more apt, given the possible nature of the coming battle:

Dulce Et Decorum Est

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned out backs,
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots,
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame, all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of gas-shells dropping softly behind.

Gas! GAS! Quick, boys!--An ecstasy of fumbling
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time,
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime.--
Dim through the misty panes and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.

In all my dreams before my helpless sight
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

If in some smothering dreams, you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin,
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs
Bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,--
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.

Wilfred Owen, The Somme, 1916

Let's hope that history doesn't repeat itself as it so often does...

So did I. I just didn't feel the need to comment.
This forum needs a 'views' counter so that you can see that your posts have actually been read...

...Ziroc? [img]smile.gif[/img]

<font color="#ffccff"> Nice idea H. I have seen them at other sites. As for who wrote it, I have no idea or I would have posted it. </font></font>[/QUOTE]