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, My Soldier,
how shall I deal with you?
Have you always turned the other cheek?
To my cause have you been true?"

The soldier squared his shoulders.
'No, Lord, guess I ain't.
Those of us who carry guns,
can't always be a saint.

I've had to work most Sundays,
and at times my talk was tough.
And sometimes I've been violent,
-- the world is awfully rough.
But I never took a penny
that wasn't mine to keep.
I worked a lot of overtime,
'cause the bills just got too steep.

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

I know I don't deserve a place,
among the people here.
They never wanted me around,
except to calm their fears.

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

A silence fell around the throne,
where the saints had often trod.
As the Soldier waited quietly,
for the judgment of his God.

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