EIN FESTE BURG IST UNSER GOTT
(Luther's Hymn) 
By John Greenleaf Whittier
(1807-1892)

We wait beneath the furnace-blast
	The pangs of transformation;
Not painlessly doth God recast
	And mould anew the nation.
		Hot burns the fire
		Where wrongs expire;
		Nor spares the hand
		That from the land
		Uproots the ancient evil.
		
The hand-breadth cloud the sages feared
	Its bloody rain is dropping;
The poison plant the fathers spared
	All else is overtopping.
		East, West, South, North,
		It curses the earth;
		All justice dies,
		And fraud and lies
Live only in its shadow.

What gives the wheat-field blades of steel?
	What points the rebel cannon?
What sets the soaring rabble's heel
	On the old star-spangled pennon?
		What breaks the oath
		Of the men o' the South?
		What whets the knife
		For the Union's life?--
Hark to the answer: Slavery!

Then waste no blows on lesser foes
	On strife unworthy freemen.
God lifts today the vail, and shows
	The features of the demon!
		O North and South
		Its victims both,
		Can ye not cry
		"Let slavery die!"
And union find in freedom?

What though the cast-out spirit tear
	The nation in his going?
We who have shared guilt must share
	The pang of his o'erthrowing!
		Whate'er the loss,
		Whate'er the cross,
		Shall they complain
		Of present pain
Who trust in God's hereafter?

For who that leans on His right arm
	Was ever yet forsaken?
What righteous cause can suffer harm
	If he its part has taken?
		Though wild and loud
		And dark the cloud
		Behind its folds
		His hand upholds
The calm sky of to-morrow.

Above the maddening cry for blood,
	Above the wild war-drumming,
Let Freedom's voice be heard, with good
	The evil overcoming.
		Give prayer and purse
		To stay the Curse
		Whose wrong we share,
		Whose shame we bear,
Whose end shall gladden Heaven!

In vain the bells of war shall ring
	Of triumphs and revenges,
While still is spared the evil thing
	That severs and estranges.
		But blest the ear
		That yet shall hear
		The jubilant bell
		That rings the knell
Of Slavery forever!

Then let the selfish lip be dumb,	
	And hushed the breath of sighing;
Before the joy of peace must come
	The pains of purifying.
		God give us grace
		Each in his place
		To bear his lot,
		And, murmuring not,
Endure and wait and labor!

The Home Front