The War Prayer
by Mark Twain
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 which
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 outpouring
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 — them 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!"
