When I see tyrants wage vainglorious wars,

And serfs spill blood on barren fields of scorn—

Or mother’s unplumbed tears when bairn they bore

Are rendered limb from limb, in battle torn.

When dauntless youth are hurled to nameless graves,

Crass carnage heaped upon their mortal coil—

Behold the precious blood and breath they gave

Entombed in muck upon some foreign soil;

‘Tis then of mans’s humanity I ask

That such a scourge find countenance in God,

Who’s reverent face now veils a woeful mask

Where stern compassion seems a callous fraud—

I mourn a world enslaved by vengeful pride…

‘Til scores of mushroom clouds do burst and rise.