When I look upon the Battle Flag
my heart beats ever fast,
amid that cross and 13 stars
are memories of my past.
There's anguished cries, a Rebel yell,
a tear on frozen face,
a straining mule, a half an arm,
a hallowed, bloody place.
There's mother's cries and father's hearts
and husband's short notes home,
there's yellowed linen holding dear,
old Bible, broken comb.
It tells me of our battlefields,
amid the willowed glen,
where godly ground cries out today
with blood from Southron men.
It tells me of the dank and dust,
rations cut in half,
it whispers of forgotten place,
a soldier's epitaph.
The ragged flag, pockmarked with holes
and blood stained; Let her fly,
her shadows hold the righteous cause
and waves in southern sky.
It whispers to me, not forget
our wounded nor our dead;
it gives me strength as freedoms fall
to always look ahead.
And as she waves, I hold her dear
and offer murmured prayer,
that one day she will fly from every
Southern city square.
So sleep, my Southron soldier men,
they'll not take her away,
for under that beloved flag
lies all our Southron gray.
Her field of red remembers you,
her cross will not come down
and all the glory of her stars
are fixtures in your crown.
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