No Greater Love

“Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori.” - Horace

That may have stirred hearts in the time of the Roman poet Horace but war has lost its glamor, and these days it would be a hard sell to convince many that dying in Iraq and Afghanistan is “dulce et decorum.”

Even a century ago, in World War I, when soldiers still marched off to war midst pomp and drum beat, British poet Wilfred Owens put lie to Horace’s quote with his famous poem by the same name describing the horrible realities of trench warfare and mustard gas.

Yet, the amazing thing is that today’s young men and women, with the luster of war long stripped away, still volunteer to go off and fight in increasingly unpopular wars – knowing there is a real chance they may be killed. And because of that – regardless of how I may feel about the wisdom of this or that conflict - they have my deepest respect and gratitude, especially those whom we honor this weekend for having paid the ultimate sacrifice.

It is aching to see their photos in the newspapers or marched across the television screen against a backdrop of mournful music. So young and fresh and full of life, they could be our children – or grandchildren. And now they are gone. If the true measure of life were its length and not its depth, it would be an unspeakable and unbearable tragedy for families and loved ones. But, we know – and I pray their families know - that their sons and daughters were involved in something deeply honorable and greater than themselves. And that is the true measure of a life’s value and worth, not just the accumulation of days and years.

As in so many other areas of life, poets capture these sentiments best of all, as did British poet Laurence Binyon in this excerpt from one of my all time favorite poems, “For the Fallen” about those who died in World War I.

"They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:

Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning
We will remember them.

They mingle not with their laughing comrades again;
They sit no more at familiar tables of home;
They have no lot in our labour of the day-time;
They sleep beyond England's foam.

But where our desires are and our hopes profound,
Felt as well-spring that is hidden from sight,
To the innermost heart of their own land they are known

As the stars are known to the Night;
As the stars that shall be bright when we are dust,
Moving in marches upon the heavenly plain;
As the stars that are starry in the time of our darkness,
To the end, to the end they remain."

Gerald E. Lavey