My shoulders ache beneath my pack
(Lie easier, Cross, upon his back).
I march with feet that burn and smart
(Tread, Holy Feet, upon my heart).
Men shout at me who may not speak.
(They scourged Thy back and smote Thy cheek).
I may not lift a hand to clear
my eyes of salty drops that sear,
(Then hall my fickle soul forget
Thy agony of Bloody Sweat?)
My rifle hand is stiff and numb
(From Thy pierced palm red rivers come.)
Lord, Thou didst suffer more for me
Than all the hosts of land and sea.
So let me render back again
This millionth of Thy gift. Amen.
As I looked at his dates, I assumed he died in France shortly before the Armistice, which he did.
ReplyDeleteI googled his name and found that:
"At the time of his deployment to Europe during the first World War (1914–1918), Kilmer was considered the leading American Catholic poet and lecturer of his generation, whom critics often compared to British contemporaries G. K. Chesterton (1874–1936) and Hilaire Belloc (1870–1953).[1][2][3] A sergeant in the 165th U.S. Infantry Regiment (better known as 'The Fighting 69th), Kilmer was killed at the Second Battle of the Marne in 1918 at the age of 31."
Thank you then for introducing this poet to us. I happen to be French-born and my maternal grandfather fought in WWI. So his death... Hm.
Wishing you a Blessed Good Friday.
I just found out that my husband (American, Jesuit educated) knows this poem by heart!
ReplyDeleteInteresting. Thanks for your research. Isn't it amazing that your husband knows this so well.
ReplyDelete