Twenty thousand little stitches, Go to make a soldier’s sock; That’s not counting up the hitches, Nor the minutes by the clock.
Forty thousand little stitches, Then, it takes to make pair, And it means a heap of riches If you count the thought that’s there.
There’s a little wisp of laughter, Just to keep your spirit gay; There’s a thread of tough resistance, That will give you strength by day.
There’s a filament of firelight, Stretching out across the sea,
Just to warm you in the cold night And a glow of cheer to be.
There’s a strand so soft for comfort, Meant to ease the longest road; And a friendly comrade feeling That would like to share your load.
Forty thousand little stitches, Then, it takes to make a pair. And they all are woven closely In the armour of a prayer.