When the wind washes over brown meadows
For the last time at the end of Earth's days,
And gone forever are the grim shadows
Of sin and death, humanity's malaise;
After the words of the wide world are spent
In vanity, striving after the wind,
And the last war sends back men who were sent
In glory, drained, to (be buried or) mend;
Yes, after all these, the Maker of all
Things that have been in life as we knew it
Will take the fear in which Earth is enthralled
And cure it; creation, and renew it.
Redeeming the world in a holy blaze
Returns the eternal Ancient of Days.