The crimson sun was slowly settling in the west; A soldier lay on the battlefield, nearing the end of life's quest. Left to die a lonely death upon the recent field of strife; Thoughts of home consumed him, as he approached eternal life. A padre was searching across that sacred, ravaged ground, To see if a breath of life among the fallen could be found. He heard a faint whisper, "Padre, come, talk with me, hold my hand, Ere I am borne by the angels toward that golden strand." The padre held the Yankee's hand and clasped him to his breast; "You did your best; God will crown you with a regal crest. Take comfort knowing your sacrifice will not have been in vain; Because of you, this nation will be united in brotherhood again!" "The slain man lying next to me is also my mother's son; Oh, padre, will God forgive me for the awful deed I've done? I chose to struggle for the North, his allegiance was to the South; 'Brother, I love and forgive you', were the last words from his mouth!" "God understands and will forgive, fear you not , my son; In the heat of battle, deeds occur that cannot be undone." "Thank you, padre; please read to me the Twenty-third Psalm, That I may begin my eternal journey with reassuring calm."