Child of the boundless prairie, son of the virgin soil,
Heir to the bearing of burdens, brother to them that toil;
God and Nature together shaped him to lead in the van,
In the stress of her wildest weather when the Nation needed
a Man.
Eyes of a smoldering fire, heart of a lion at bay,
Patience to plan for tomorrow, valor to serve for today,
Mournful and mirthful and tender, quick as a flash with a jest,
Hiding with gibe and great laughter the ache that was dull
in his breast.
Met were the Man and the Hour--Man who was strong for the shock--
Fierce were the lightnings unleashed; in the midst, he stood
fast as a rock.
Comrade he was and commander, he who was meant for the time,
Iron in council and action, simple, aloof, and sublime.
Swift slip the years from their tether, centuries pass like a
breath,
Only some lives are immortal, challenging darkness and death.
Hewn from the stuff of the martyrs, write on the stardust
his name,
Glowing, untarnished, transcendent, high on the records of Fame.
Oh, man of many sorrows, 'twas your blood
That flowed at Chickamauga, at Bull Run,
Vicksburg, Antietam, and the gory wood
And Wilderness of ravenous Deaths that stood
Round Richmond like a ghostly garrison:
Your blood for those who won,
For those who lost, your tears!
For you the strife, the fears,
For us, the sun!
For you the lashing winds and the beating rain in your eyes,
For us the ascending stars and the wide, unbounded skies.
Oh, man of storms! Patient and kingly soul!
Oh, wise physician of a wasted land!
A nation felt upon its heart your hand,
And lo, your hand hath made the shattered, whole,
With iron clasp your hand hath held the wheel
Of the lurching ship, on tempest waves no keel
Hath ever sailed.
A grim smile held your lips when strong men quailed.
You strove alone with chaos and prevailed;
You felt the grinding shock and did not reel,
And, ah, your hand that cut the battle's path
Wide with the devastating plague of wrath,
Your bleeding hand, gentle with pity yet,
Did not forget
To bless, to succor, and to heal.
