So do I thank you; and if some day
You in your gained Paradisal bowers
Hear me knocking, be bold to pray,
"This is no stranger: we claim him ours!"
_IN THE MIDST OF THEM_
"_Gentle Jesus, meek and mild,
Look on me, a little child.
Pity my simplicity
And suffer me to come to Thee_."
Now prevails a creed which tells
Us to seek no miracles.
Reason by discovered lore
Reigns where Faith was found before.
God, Who set our world aspin,
Now is weary of its din;
He, Who for our fathers' sake
Conjured lightning and earthquake,
Vanquished sorrow, sickness, death,
Deems we are not worth the Breath
That blessed the trusting prophet's rod
When Moses called upon his God.
How dare _we_ expect Him give
Miracles to help us live?
Yet I build on Him Who saith,
"Move the mountains with your faith"--
Doubt the lips that falter, wan,
"The age of miracles is gone!"
I have learned to read the grim
Testimony unto Him
Printed with starvation's hand
On every hove! through the land;
I have swung the crazy door
To find huddled on a floor
Rat-gnawed and riddled, with never a clout
To keep the eager winter out,
Some six or seven of our kind
Shivering beneath the wind,
Foodless, fireless, hungry-eyed,
Crouched round one who just had died,
Hopeless that the dawn would bring
Friendly aid and comforting.
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