Our Martyr-President—McKinley

“IT is God’s way; His will be done,”
     Thus said our dying chieftain brave;
Then, cruel death, where is thy sting?
     And where thy victory, O grave?

From kingly courts, from cottage small,
     From every land across the sea,
There blends in one unbroken strain,
     “Nearer, my God, nearer to Thee.”

Our loving ruler, kind and brave—
     Cover him o’er with choicest flowers,
While bleeding millions trusting say,
     God’s way and will be done, not ours.

Resigned and sweet his last good-bye;
     His feet have touched the shining strands,
A regal coronet set with stars,
     Placed on his brow by God’s own hands.

A million silent prayers ascend
     For her who, patient, trusting, waits
To greet her loved, while angel hands
     Are beckoning from the golden gates.

While from Columbia’s bleeding side
     We turn with piteous, sorrowing cry,
There comes a purpose firm and strong—
     Foul anarchy at last shall die.

Sweeter than e’er the grand old hymn,
     Sung by that martyred spirit free,
Answering chimes come home from heaven,
     “Nearer, at last, my God, to Thee.”