Three Hills

THERE is a hill in England,

Green fields and a school I know,

Where the balls fly fast in summer,

And the whispering elm-trees grow,

A little hill, a dear hill,

And the playing fields below.

There is a hill in Flanders,

Heaped with a thousand slain,

Where the shells fly night and noontide

And the ghosts that died in vain,—

A little hill, a hard hill

To the souls that died in pain.

There is a hill in Jewry,

Three crosses pierce the sky,

On the midmost He is dying

To save all those who die,—

A little hill, a kind hill

To souls in jeopardy.
Harrow, December, 1915