“Ite Missa Est”

On the Death of President McKinley.—Globe-Democrat.
September 15, 1901.

The Mason’s hands are folded but the breach
     Within thy walls, Columbia, gapes no more;
     He healed thy wounds, though deep, and old and sore;
His own he could not heal. Thus God doth teach
     Once more, that we must sacrifice our best
     Upon His altar—“Ite missa est.”

His work is finished; coupled once again
     By his deft hands they race along the road,
     Of empire, North and South, in one through train
That bears the wealth of nations for its load.
     The Switchman’s task is ended; let him rest
     On earth’ [sic] calm bosom—“Ite missa est.”

Thy will be done, oh God, nearer to Thee
     That strong, true heart shall beat so loud and clear
     That peoples yet unborn shall pause to hear
Those throbbings which have made mankind more free.
     His part is done, trust God to do the rest,
     Hush, World, he sleepeth—“Ite missa est.”