Terrible Swift Sword Poem by John F. McCullagh

It raged across five Aprils, killed 600,000 sons,
but now, there was a chance for peace, if Johnston wanted one.
Some urged a guerrilla war, a game of hit and run,
but Johnston saw a suffering South and knew this must be done.
He called a truce with Sherman to surrender his command.
In truth, I think he would have rather shook the Devil’s hand.
The defeated kept their horses, and were paroled back to their homes.
This land once more united, its prior sins atoned.
For every drop of blood that had been spilled by blow or lash
had been matched, drop for drop, in every bloody clash.
On the ninth of April 65’ Rebels tore their battle flags
and little strips of colored cloth were given to each man.
The flags were not surrendered to become the spoils of war.
They fraternized with men they would have killed the day before.
Now all who had survived the war, all but one, would live.
Good Friday night would claim the last that Lincoln had to give.