The morn has dawned upon the night of sorrow,
For which we prayed a little while
ago,
And he has entered on his bright tomorrow
Triumphant over death and pain and woe.
“Nearer, My God, to Thee,” in anguish
He prayed, in agony of mortal
pain,
“Thy will be done, although the flesh may languish,”
He murmured softly, like a sweet
refrain.
He was a hero. For his country’s glory
He risked his manhood in its youthful
prime.
The darkest blot upon that country’s story
Is the assassin’s dastardly, fell crime.
In perfect safety, through the fiercest battle,
McKinley rode, while bullets fell
like rain,
And brought dispatches, ’mid the canon’s rattle,
To his commander, o’er beleaguered
plain.
And yet, strange fate! At zenith of his power,
On the great day named for him
at the feast,
He fell, a martyr, in the festive bower,
The Nation’s ruler and the people’s
guest.
Oh, Watchman, tell us from thy clearer vision
What of the night? Its gloom is
o’er us still.
Speak us some comfort from the land Elysian
As will resign us to God’s sovereign
will.
Must anarchy strike virtue down, in terror,
In land redeemed by patriotic
blood?
How can we purify our land from error
And make it strong in Christian
brotherhood?
