O, Little David, play on your harp, That ivory harp with the golden strings And sing as you did in Jewry Land, Of the Prince of Peace and the God of Love And the coming Christ Immanuel. O, Little David, play on your harp. A seething world is gone stark mad; And is drunk with the blood, Gorged with the flesh, Blinded with the ashes Of her millions of dead. From out it all and over all There stands, years old and fully grown, A monster in the guise of man. He is of war and not of war; Born in peace, Nurtured in arrogant pride and greed, World-creature is he and native to no land. And war itself is merciful When measured by his deeds. Beneath the Crescent Lie a people maimed; Their only sin-- That they worship God. On Russia's steppes Is a race in tears; Their one offense-- That they would be themselves. On Flander's plains Is a nation raped; A bleeding gift Of "Kultur's" conquering creed. And in every land Are black folk scourged; Their only crime-- That they dare be men. O, Little David, play on your harp, That ivory harp with the golden strings And psalm anew your songs of Peace, Of the soothing calm of a Brotherly Love, And the saving grace of a Mighty God. O, Little David, play on your harp.