The War Prayer

By Mark Twain (c. 1905, published posthumously)

It was a time of great and exalting excitement. The country was up in arms, the war was on, and in every breast burned the holy fire of patriotism; the drums were beating, the bands were playing, the toy pistols popping, the bunched fire-crackers 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 outpourings 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! Then home from the war, bronzed heroes, welcomed, adored, submerged in golden seas of glory! With the volunteers sat the anxious loved ones, their lips moving in silent and reverent prayer that the blessing of Almighty God might be and abide with those young men.

Then the preacher stood up in his place and offered up a prayer such as none but a preacher could offer, a prayer for victory, for safety to the troops, for glory to the flag; and he ended by beseeching the Great Commander of Battles to be with those who were to fight on the morrow.

A reverent hush followed, and in that moment there crept into the church door an old man, bent and gray, with a weary face that looked as if life’s long battle had worn the heart down to something that gave no sign. He came slowly up the aisle and stood before the pulpit.

Then he spoke; and what he spoke was this:

O Lord our God, help us to tear their soldiers to bloody shreds with our shells;
Help us to cover their smiling fields with the pale forms of their patriot dead;
Help us to drown the thunder of the guns with the shrieks of their wounded, writhing in pain;
Help us to lay waste their humble homes with a hurricane of fire;
Help us to wring the hearts of their unoffending widows with unavailing grief;
Help us to turn them out roofless with their little children to wander unfriended
the wastes of their desolated land in rags and hunger and thirst, sports of the sun
flames of summer and the icy winds of winter, broken in spirit, worn with travail,
imploring Thee for the refuge of the grave and denied it — for our sakes who adore
Thee, Lord, blast their hopes, blight their lives, protract their bitter pilgrimage,
make heavy their steps, water their way with their tears, stain the white snow
with the blood of their wounded feet!
We ask it, in the spirit of love, of Him Who is the Source of Love, and Who is
the ever-faithful refuge and friend of all that are sore beset and seek His aid with
humble and contrite hearts. Amen.

(After a pause.) “Ye have prayed it; if ye still desire it, speak! The messenger of the Most High waits!”

It was believed afterward that the man was a lunatic, because there was no sense in what he said.