“The Eleventh Hour” 

The vineyard calls at fading light,

The last are welcomed into sight.

No wage is lost, no soul denied,

The master’s mercy turns the tide.

At trenches’ edge, clocks did align,

The eleventh hour drew its sign.

Guns fell silent, breath was stayed,

A fragile peace at last was made.

So, numbers bind both war and word,

The Gospel’s grace, the bugle heard.

From vineyard rows to fields of clay,

We mark the hour, and bow to pray.

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