Women at Munition Making

  Their hands should minister unto the flame of life,
    Their fingers guide
    The rosy teat, swelling with milk,
    To the eager mouth of the suckling babe
    Or smooth with tenderness,
    Softly and soothingly,
    The heated brow of the ailing child.
    Or stray among the curls
    Of the boy or girl, thrilling to mother love.
    But now,
    Their hands, their fingers
    Are coarsened in munition factories.
    Their thoughts, which should fly
    Like bees among the sweetest mind flowers
    Gaining nourishment for the thoughts to be,
    Are bruised against the law,
    ‘Kill, kill’.
    They must take part in defacing and destroying the natural body
    Which, certainly during this dispensation
    Is the shrine of the spirit.
    O God!
    Throughout the ages we have seen,
    Again and again
    Men by Thee created
    Cancelling each other.
    And we have marvelled at the seeming annihilation
    Of Thy work.
    But this goes further,
    Taints the fountain head,
    Mounts like a poison to the Creator’s very heart.
    O God!
    Must It anew be sacrificed on earth?