He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath
are stored;
He hath loosed the fateful lightning of His terrible swift
sword:
His truth is marching on.
I have seen Him in the watch-fires of a hundred circling
camps;
They have builded Him an altar in the evening dews and
damps;
I can read His righteous sentence by the dim and flaring
lamps:
His day is marching on.
I have read a fiery gospel writ in burnished rows of steel :
“As ye deal with my contemners, so with you my grace shall
deal;
Let the Hero, born of woman, crush the serpent with his
heel,
Since God is marching on.”
He has sounded forth the trumpet that shall never call
retreat;
He is sifting out the hearts of men before His
judgment-seat:
Oh, be swift, my soul, to answer Him! be jubilant, my feet!
Our God is marching on.
In the beauty of the lilies Christ was born across the sea,
With a glory in his bosom that transfigures you and me:
As he died to make men holy, let us die to make men free,
While God is marching on.
– Written by Julia Ward Howe and first published in The Atlantic Monthly, Vol. 9, No. 52,
February 1862, p. 145
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