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On a sad November day we hear of Flanders Fields,
And the rows of white crosses they seem so very real;
They were once brave young lads with comrades true and bold,
And we all must do our part to keep their stories told.
They march through our school with their flowers oh so red,
And they ask us to remember the things that they say;
For them it's so clear for they've been to war,
And we shouldn't have to ask just what they're praying for.
Who are these men with their glory pinned to their breast?
And what does it mean for the rest?
The tears stain their cheeks yet their faces glow with pride,
They fought and tried - watched young men die,
Never questioning why - for you and I.
They talk of battles long, while young ones try to feel,
But with lives so full and plenty it seems so unreal;
It's so hard to picture now these men clad in blue,
Crawling through the trenches praying "God, God, get me through".
Their presence gently stirs us to remember those that died,
Men who gave their bodies leaving young hearts behind;
But with each passing memory and each new sunset,
All must tell the story "Lest, lest we forget"!
Who are these men with their glory pinned to their breast?
And what does it mean for the rest?
The tears stain their cheeks yet their faces glow with pride,
They fought and tried - watched young men die,
Never questioning why - for you and I.
Who are these men with their glory pinned to their breast?
And what does it mean for the rest?
The tears stain their cheeks yet their faces glow with pride,
They fought and they tried - watched young men die,
Never questioning why - for you and I.
[Fading]
For you and I....
They fought and they tried....
