Pity the soldier, broken and afraid
Bowed head, his hollow eyes look to the ground
He faces death now, lined up on parade
His lips are moving but they make no sound.
Pity the soldiers in the firing squad
Facing today their comrade and a friend
They tremble too in dread and fear their God
Their cold bloodied murder will be his end.
Twelve rifles lie in wait upon the ground
They load the bullets; some are live, some blank.
Now eyes blindfolded to the stake he’s bound
His only crime was fear when terror had pulled rank.
Frightened men must shoot an innocent man.
To kill friends in war wasn’t in the plan.