An angel in heaven was flying
to and fro o'er all the earth;
an angel in a loud voice crying,
"How many, O sons of men?"
How many men are fallen, O sons of men,
how many are dead and dying
in great Ascalon and Tyre?
How many widows are crying
where the blood flows down like water
from the horse's smashing hoof?
How many young men lie dead, sons of men?
How many in the grave unwed,
where roses grow, and poppies,
in the bloody fields of war?
How many, O ye nations?
How many slip into darkness,
whose face will be seen no more?
How many men are fallen, sons of men?
In starlit skies, brightly shining,
Mars has wandered to work his will.
In the midst of all our feasting
a formless hand has writ
our sorrow on walls of joy.
We see it on gilded tables,
in the secret and familiar places,
on the heads of children at play,
on their foreheads and on their faces:
"Quick pickings and easy prey".