The War Prayer
It was a time of great and exalting excitement. The country was up in arms, the war was on, in
every breast burned the holy fire of patriotism; the drums were beating, the bands playing, the
toy pistols popping, the bunched firecrackers hissing and spluttering; on every hand and far down
the receding and fading spread of roofs and balconies a fluttering wilderness of flags flashed in the
sun; daily the young volunteers marched down the wide avenue gay and fine in their new
uniforms, the proud fathers and mothers and sisters and sweethearts cheering them with voices
choked with happy emotion as they swung by; nightly the packed mass meetings listened,
panting, to patriot oratory with stirred the deepest deeps of their hearts, and which they
interrupted at briefest intervals with cyclones of applause, the tears running down their cheeks
the while; in the churches the pastors preached devotion to flag and country, and invoked the
God of Battles beseeching His aid in our good cause in outpourings of fervid eloquence which
moved every listener.
It was indeed a glad and gracious time, and the half dozen rash spirits that ventured to
disapprove of the war and cast a doubt upon its righteousness straightway got such a stern and
angry warning that for their personal safety’s sake they quickly shrank out of sight and offended
no more in that way.
Sunday morning came — next day the battalions would leave for the front; the church was filled;
the volunteers were there, their young faces alight with martial dreams — visions of the stern
advance, the gathering momentum, the rushing charge, the flashing sabers, the flight of the foe,
the tumult, the enveloping smoke, the fierce pursuit, the surrender!
Then home from the war, bronzed heroes, welcomed, adored, submerged in golden seas of glory!
With the volunteers sat their dear ones, proud, happy, and envied by the neighbors and friends
who had no sons and brothers to send forth to the field of honor, there to win for the flag, or,
failing, die the noblest of noble deaths. The service proceeded; a war chapter from the Old
Testament was read; the first prayer was said; it was followed by an organ burst that shook the
building, and with one impulse the house rose, with glowing eyes and beating hearts, and poured
out that tremendous invocation:
God the all-terrible! Thou who ordainest,
Thunder thy clarion and lightning thy sword!
Then came the long
prayer. None could remember the like of it for passionate pleading
and moving and beautiful language. The burden of its supplication was, that an ever-merciful and
benignant Father of us all would watch over our noble young soldiers, and aid, comfort, and
encourage them in their patriotic work; bless them, shield them in the day of battle and the hour
of peril, bear them in His mighty hand, make them strong and confident, invincible in the bloody
onset; help them crush the foe, grant to them and to their flag and country imperishable honor
and glory –
An aged stranger entered and moved with slow and noiseless step up the main aisle, his eyes
fixed upon the minister, his long body clothed in a robe that reached to his feet, his head bare, his
white hair descending in a frothy cataract to his shoulders, his seamy face unnaturally pale, pale
even to ghastliness. With all eyes following him and wondering, he made his silent way; without
pausing, he ascended to the preacher’s side and stood there waiting. With shut lids the preacher,
unconscious of his presence, continued his moving prayer, and at last finished it with the words,
uttered in fervent appeal, Bless our arms, grant us the victory, O Lord and God, Father and
Protector of our land and flag!
The stranger touched his arm, motioned him to step aside — which the startled minister did —
and took his place. During some moments he surveyed the spellbound audience with solemn eyes,
in which burned an uncanny light; then in a deep voice he said:
I come from the Throne — bearing a message from Almighty God!
The words smote the
house with a shock; if the stranger perceived it he gave no attention. He has heard the
prayer of His servant your shepherd, and will grant it if such be your desire after I, His messenger,
shall have explained to you its import — that is to say, its full import. For it is like unto many of
the prayers of men, in that it asks for more than he who utters it is aware of — except he pause
and think.
God’s servant and yours has prayed his prayer. Has he paused and taken thought?
Is it one prayer? No, it is two — one uttered, and the other not. Both have reached the ear of
Him who heareth all supplications, the spoken and the unspoken. Ponder this — keep it in mind. If
you would beseech a blessing upon yourself, beware! lest without intent you invoke a curse upon
your neighbor at the same time. If you pray for the blessing of rain on your crop which needs it,
by that act you are possibly praying for a curse on some neighbor’s crop which may not need rain
and can be injured by it.
You have heard your servant’s prayer — the uttered part of it. I am commissioned by God to
put into words the other part of it — that part which the pastor — and also you in your hearts —
fervently prayed silently. And ignorantly and unthinkingly? God grant that it was so! You heard the
words
Grant us the victory, O Lord our God!
That is sufficient. The whole of the uttered
prayer is compact into those pregnant words. Elaborations were not necessary. When you have
prayed for victory you have prayed for many unmentioned results which follow victory — must
follow it, cannot help but follow it. Upon the listening spirit of God fell also the unspoken part of
the prayer. He commandeth me to put it into words. Listen!
Lord our Father, our young patriots, idols of our hearts, go forth into battle — be Thou near
them! With them — in spirit — we also go forth from the sweet peace of our beloved firesides to
smite the foe. O Lord our God, help us tear their soldiers to bloody shreds with our shells; help us
to cover their smiling fields with the pale forms of their patriot dead; help us to drown the
thunder of the guns with the shrieks of their wounded, writhing in pain; help us to lay waste
their humble homes with a hurricane of fire; help us to wring the hearts of their unoffending
widows with unavailing grief; help us to turn them out roofless with their little children to wander
unfriended in the wastes of their desolated land in rags and hunger and thirst, sports of the sun
flames in summer and the icy winds of winter, broken in spirit, worn with travail, imploring thee
for the refuge of the grave and denied it –
For our sakes who adore Thee, Lord, blast their hopes, blight their lives, protract their bitter
pilgrimmage, make heavy their steps, water their way with their tears, strain the white snow
with the blood of their wounded feet!
We ask it, in the spirit of love, of Him Who is the Source of Love, and Who is the ever-faithful
refuge and friend of all that are sore beset and seek His aid with humble and contrite hearts.
Amen.
(After a pause.) Ye have prayed it; if ye still desire it, speak! The messenger of the Most High
waits.
…
It was believed afterward that the man was a lunatic, because there was no sense in what he
said.
Mark Twain (1905)
This is from The Way of Herodotus: Travels with the Man Who Invented History by Justin Marozzi:
