Beside a well-reap'd field at Eventide,
One laid him down to rest who'd wandered far,
And fought and wounded been in Life's great war.
'These have done well their work,' he said, and sigh'd,
'But on mine armour blots of earth remain;
Nor blood nor tears of mine have wash'd that stain.'
Then came a voice from heaven's blue depths profound,
Beyond the shining of the evening star,
And breathless awe thrill'd thro' him at the sound,
'I will make clean thine armour once again.'
Then down that weary soul devoutly kneel'd
And lifted from the dust glad tearful eyes,
Sweet sleep fell on him from the solemn skies,
And perfect peace upon the well-reap'd field.