“His Will Be Done”

A bullet winged by deadly hate
     May strike a good man low, so frail,
So frail the flower that soon or late
     Must lose its bloom and shrink and pale
               And sink to dust.

But though hearts blind with hate had power
     To speed the bullets that should lay
All good men low, in that dire hour
     Goodness were mightier than they
               Who dealt the blow.

Thanks for the invulnerable soul
     That leaden bullets cannot pierce;
Thanks for the good man’s aim, his whole
     Intent, before which passions fierce
               Shall pale and must.

Thanks for the life that leaps from death
     To its high source; thanks for the will,
The will that still encompasseth
     Man’s life so frail, and worketh still
               Hate’s overthrow.