The soldier stood and faced his God,
Which must always come to pass,
He hoped his shoes were shining,
Just as brightly as his brass.

"Step forward now, you soldier,
How shall I deal with you?
Have you always turned the other cheek?
To My Church have you been true?"

The soldier squared his shoulders,
and said: "No, Lord, I guess I ain't,
Because those of us who carry guns,
Can't always be a saint.

I never passed a cry for help,
Though at times I shook with fear,
And sometimes, God, forgive me,
I wept unmanly tears.

If you've a place for me here, Lord,
It needn't be real grand,
I've never expected, or had too much,
But if you don't, I'll understand."

There was a silence around the throne,
Where the saints had often trod,
As the soldier waited quietly,
For the judgment of his God.

"Step forward now, you soldier,
You've borne your burdens well,
Walk peacefully on Heaven's streets,
You've done your time in Hell."