The Shells Poem by Virna Sheard

O my brave heart! O my strong heart! My sweet heart and gay,
The soul of me went with you the hour you marched away,
For surely she is soulless, this woman white, and still,
Who works with shining metal to make the things that kill.

I tremble as I touch them,-so strange they are, and bright;
Each one will be a comet to break the purple night.
Grey Fear will ride before it, and Death will ride behind,
The sound of it will deafen,-the light of it will blind!

And whom it meets in passing, but God alone will know;
Each one will blaze a trail in blood-will hew a road of woe;
O when the fear is on me, my heart grows faint and cold:-
I dare not think of what I do,-of what my fingers hold.

Then sounds a Voice, 'Arise, and make the weapons of the Lord!'
'He rides upon the whirlwind! He hath need of shell and sword!
His army is a mighty host-the lovely and the strong,-
They follow Him to battle, with trumpet and with Song!'

O my brave heart! My strong heart! My sweet heart and dear,-
'Tis not for me to falter,-'Tis not for me to fear-
Across the utmost barrier-wherever you may be,-
With joy unspent, and deathless, my soul will follow thee.