Mark Townsend


Many times the brassy trumpet sounds,
Its call to our brothers who till the ground,
Take up your ploughshares and string your bows,
Take heed of the chilling wind that blows,
A message of ice to the free and oppressed,
The time has come,
The end of rest,

The darkness draws near,
The light grows dim,
Our brothers they gather,
Their faces grim,
The price of freedom,
Of safety,
Once more must be paid,
And thus outward they march,
To their brothers aid.

The dark has been banished now,
Our brothers come home,
Though many now lay,
‘neath that strange forest’s loam,
We shall remember them,
We shall never forget,
And one day our battles will come,
Though we pray,
Not yet.