I

Here, a soldier plain, I kneel,
Sword on thigh, spur on heel.

If I fall or if I stand,
Lord, my times are in Thy hand.

Three things beneath the sun,
These I'll ask, and so have done.

Clean hand, clean sword,
And a clean heart to serve Thee, Lord!

II

When Spring's turned and Winter's done,
Life in every bough does run.

Very sweet the Spring sky . . .
Shall a man desire to die,

Die, and be no more seen
Where streams run and fields are green,

And the birds do sing shrill
Mating songs in April?

Should a man not fear to fall,
Lord, Lord . . . if life were all? . . .