"When pestilence at noonday wastes, And death in triumph onward hastes, O Saviour Christ, remember Nain, And give us our beloved again. In every ward of sickness tread, And lay Thy hand upon each head. "O Friend and Comforter divine, Who makest light at midnight shine, Give consolation to the sad Who in the days of peace were glad. And in the hour of sorrow spread Thy wings above each drooping head. Amen." I had to find a new voice to start it, for our little organ had been destroyed by a shell, and our precentor was lying in a grave beside his Medical Aid Post at Guemappe. When, on Good Friday, we had sung the hymn before, the regiment returned from rest billets to the line, he had started the tune. His love for music was second only to that of risking his life for the wounded. In one of his letters given me to censor, he had written, "How nice it will be to be back in my old place in the choir." But he was destined not to go back. His path was onward and upward, and his place was in the heavenly choir. I had seen it in his large, tender blue eyes. There was in them an expression as if he had seen "the land that is very far off." I felt that he was chosen as a sacrifice--that the seal of God was on his forehead. Still, we had to sing, though his voice was silent. So we sang--several tunes, for hymns seemed all our spirits needed. What need was there for a sermon when we had hymns? We left the rag-time type of hymn and sang the real deep things that come from men’s hearts, and ever after are taken up by their fellows to express their deepest aspirations and experiences. The ruined chapel vibrated with music, and men, I am told, stood in the street to listen while "Jesus, Lover of my Soul," "Rock of Ages," "When I Survey the Wondrous Cross" and "The Sands of Time are Sinking" told of the faith and love that lift up the heart. We also sang "Abide with Me." After hearing us sing it one night, a Roman Catholic officer in the regiment, a Canadian and one of the bravest, most beloved men that ever walked, told me that he was a great-grandson of the author. He is in hospital now with severe wounds, but his men were present. "Couldn’t we take up a collection for the repair of the chapel when peace comes?" whispered a rifleman; "it would be a sort of thanksgiving for the good times we have had in it, and for the kindness of the congregation in giving us the use of it so freely."