Severn Teackle Wallis
Respectfully dedicated to the War-Clergy of the United States.
Oh, God of battles! once again,
With banner, trump, and drum,
And garments in thy wine-press dyed,
To give Thee thanks we come.
No goats or bullocks garlanded,
Unto thine altars go;
With brothers’ blood, by brothers shed,
Our glad libations flow,
From pest-house and from dungeon foul,
Where, maimed and torn, they die,
From gory trench and charnel-house,
Where, heap on heap, they lie.
In every groan that yields a soul,
Each shriek a heart that rends,
With every breath of tainted air,
Our homage, Lord, ascends.
We thank Thee for the sabre’s gash,
The cannon’s havoc wild;
We bless Thee for the widow’s tears,
The want that starves her child!
We give Thee praise that Thou hast lit
The torch, and fanned the flame;
That lust and rapine hunt their prey,
Kind Father, in Thy name!
That, for the songs of idle joy
False angels sang of yore,
Thou sendest War on earth–ill-will
To men for evermore!
We know that wisdom, truth, and right
To us and ours are given;
That Thou hast clothed us with the wrath,
To do the work of heaven.
We know that plains and cities waste
Are pleasant in Thine eyes–
Thou lov’st a hearthstone desolate,
Thou lov’st a mourner’s cries.
Let not our weakness fall below
The measure of Thy will,
And while the press hath wine to bleed,
Oh, tread it with us still!
Teach us to hate–as Jesus taught
Fond fools, of yore, to love;
Give us Thy vengeance as our own–
Thy pity, hide above!
Teach us to turn, with reeking hands,
The pages of Thy word,
And learn the blessed curses there,
On them that sheathe the sword.
Where’er we tread may deserts spring,
‘Till none are left to slay;
And when the last red drop is shed,
We’ll kneel again–and pray!
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Analysis (AI Assisted)
This poem reads like a prayer, but it is built to expose how prayer can be twisted when war takes over moral language. On the surface, it looks like a hymn of thanksgiving offered after battle. As the poem goes on, it becomes clear that the thanks being given are meant to disturb rather than uplift. The speaker praises God not for mercy or restraint, but for slaughter, hunger, rape, disease, and ruin. The effect is deliberate and sustained.
The opening establishes the ritual setting. Banners, drums, and dyed garments recall biblical war imagery, placing the speaker in a familiar religious frame. That familiarity is important, because the poem depends on recognition. The reader knows how prayers are supposed to sound, and this one follows the form closely while corrupting its meaning. Instead of animal sacrifice, the offering is human blood, explicitly named as blood shed by brothers. The poem refuses to soften this. It repeats the sources of suffering again and again: pest houses, dungeons, trenches, heaps of bodies. There is no heroic filter here, only accumulation.
What makes the poem unsettling is the calm tone with which these horrors are welcomed. The speaker thanks God for wounds, for widows’ tears, for starving children. These lines do not rush past the images. They linger on them and insist that they are blessings. By doing so, the poem forces the reader to confront the logic that allows violence to be justified when it is wrapped in religious purpose. The poem does not accuse directly; it imitates. That imitation is its weapon.
The religious language becomes more aggressive as the poem continues. God is thanked for lighting the torch and encouraging lust and rapine in His name. War replaces joy, and “ill-will to men” becomes the new creed. This is a direct inversion of Christian teaching, and the poem leans into that inversion rather than disguising it. The speaker claims certainty that truth and righteousness belong to “us and ours,” a phrase that mirrors how nations and causes talk about themselves in wartime. Wrath is framed as holy labor.
One of the poem’s strongest moves is its treatment of scripture. The speaker asks to be taught how to hate, how to use God’s word to justify curses on those who refuse violence. This is not subtle. The poem suggests that scripture itself is being handled with “reeking hands,” turned into a tool instead of a guide. The prayer becomes a manual for moral collapse.
The final lines push the logic to its extreme. The speaker asks that wherever they walk, deserts should follow, until no one is left alive. Only then will they kneel and pray again. This ending makes clear that the poem is not celebrating war’s end, but exposing the emptiness of victory built on annihilation. Prayer has become an accessory to destruction, offered only after everything is gone.
As war poetry, this piece works by refusing the usual comforts. There is no honor in death here, no cleansing sacrifice, no promise of peace earned through suffering. Instead, it shows how easily violence can be sanctified when belief, certainty, and power align. The poem’s purpose is not to move the reader toward pride or resolve, but toward discomfort. It asks the reader to recognize how sacred language can be used to excuse anything, and what is lost when that happens.