Feast of the Visitation and Memorial Day

The earth is full of anger,
The seas are dark with wrath,
The Nations in their harness
Go up against our path:
Ere yet we loose the legions —
Ere yet we draw the blade,
Jehovah of the Thunders,
Lord God of Battles, aid!

High lust and froward bearing,
Proud heart, rebellious brow —
Deaf ear and soul uncaring,
We seek Thy mercy now!
The sinner that forswore Thee,
The fool that passed Thee by,
Our times are known before Thee —
Lord, grant us strength to die!

For those who kneel beside us
At altars not Thine own,
Who lack the lights that guide us,
Lord, let their faith atone!
If wrong we did to call them,
By honour bound they came;
Let not Thy Wrath befall them,
But deal to us the blame.

From panic, pride, and terror
Revenge that knows no rein —
Light haste and lawless error,
Protect us yet again,
Cloke Thou our undeserving,
Make firm the shuddering breath,
In silence and unswerving
To taste Thy lesser death.

Ah, Mary pierced with sorrow,
Remember, reach and save
The soul that comes to-morrow
Before the God that gave!
Since each was born of woman,
For each at utter need —
True comrade and true foeman —
Madonna, intercede!

E’en now their vanguard gathers,
E’en now we face the fray —
As Thou didst help our fathers,
Help Thou our host to-day.
Fulfilled of signs and wonders,
In life, in death made clear —
Jehovah of the Thunders,
Lord God of Battles, hear!

Hymn Before Action, Rudyard Kipling

          Wild stared the Danes at the double ways
          Where they loitered, all at large,
          As that dark line for the last time
          Doubled the knee to charge—

          And caught their weapons clumsily,
          And marvelled how and why—
          In such degree, by rule and rod,
          The people of the peace of God
          Went roaring down to die.

          And when the last arrow
          Was fitted and was flown,
          When the broken shield hung on the breast,
          And the hopeless lance was laid in rest,
          And the hopeless horn blown,

          The King looked up, and what he saw
          Was a great light like death,
          For Our Lady stood on the standards rent,
          As lonely and as innocent
          As when between white walls she went
          And the lilies of Nazareth.

          One instant in a still light
          He saw Our Lady then,
          Her dress was soft as western sky,
          And she was a queen most womanly—
          But she was a queen of men.

          Over the iron forest
          He saw Our Lady stand,
          Her eyes were sad withouten art,
          And seven swords were in her heart—
          But one was in her hand.

          Then the last charge went blindly,
          And all too lost for fear:
          The Danes closed round, a roaring ring,
          And twenty clubs rose o'er the King,
          Four Danes hewed at him, halloing,
          And Ogier of the Stone and Sling
          Drove at him with a spear.

          But the Danes were wild with laughter,
          And the great spear swung wide,
          The point stuck to a straggling tree,
          And either host cried suddenly,
          As Alfred leapt aside.

          Short time had shaggy Ogier
          To pull his lance in line—
          He knew King Alfred's axe on high,
          He heard it rushing through the sky,

          He cowered beneath it with a cry—
          It split him to the spine:
          And Alfred sprang over him dead,
          And blew the battle sign.

          Then bursting all and blasting
          Came Christendom like death,
          Kicked of such catapults of will,
          The staves shiver, the barrels spill,
          The waggons waver and crash and kill
          The waggoners beneath.

          Barriers go backwards, banners rend,
          Great shields groan like a gong—
          Horses like horns of nightmare
          Neigh horribly and long.

          Horses ramp high and rock and boil
          And break their golden reins,
          And slide on carnage clamorously,
          Down where the bitter blood doth lie,
          Where Ogier went on foot to die,
          In the old way of the Danes.

          "The high tide!" King Alfred cried.
          "The high tide and the turn!
          As a tide turns on the tall grey seas,
          See how they waver in the trees,
          How stray their spears, how knock their knees,
          How wild their watchfires burn!

          "The Mother of God goes over them,
          Walking on wind and flame,
          And the storm-cloud drifts from city and dale,
          And the White Horse stamps in the White Horse Vale,
          And we all shall yet drink Christian ale
          In the village of our name.

          "The Mother of God goes over them,
          On dreadful cherubs borne;
          And the psalm is roaring above the rune,
          And the Cross goes over the sun and moon,
          Endeth the battle of Ethandune
          With the blowing of a horn."
G,K. Chesterton, Ballad of the White Horse