By Clarence Edwin Flynn
While the world burns fierce and red
With the flame we all have fed,
It is not the crumbling wall
That engrosses me at all.
It is not the ashes gray,
Lying here where yesterday
Bloomed so bright the silent grave
Of the peace we could not save.
It is what Faith’s hand will rear
Over all these ruins here,
And the newer, better scene
Where Destruction’s touch has been.