The Poor of Earth
I’VE often wondered, as I’ve sat
Within mine own loved home,
And thought of those, my fellow-men,
Who houseless, homeless, roam;
That one upon this earth is found
Whose heart good promptings smother;
And will not share his wealth with him
Who is his poorer brother!
I’ve often wondered, as I’ve walked
Amid life’s busy throng,
And seen my fellows who have been
By Fortune helped along,
That they who bask in its bright rays
No tear of pity shed
On him who doth no “fortune” seek,
But asks a crust of bread!
I’ve seen the gilded temple raised,
The aspirant of fame
Ascend the altar’s sacred steps,
To preach a Saviour’s name,
And wondered, as I stood and gazed
At those rich-cushioned pews,
Where he who bears the poor man’s fate
Might hear Salvation’s news.
I’ve walked within the church-yard’s walls,
With holy dread and fear,
And on its marble tablets read
“None but the rich lie here.”
I’ve wandered till I came upon
A heap of moss-grown stones,
And some one whispered in mine ear,
“Here rest the poor man’s bones.”
My spirit wandered on, until
It left the scenes of earth;
Until I stood with those who’d passed
Through death, the second birth.
And I inquired, with holy awe,
“Who are they within this fold,
Who seem to be Heaven’s favorite,
And wear those crowns of gold?”
Then a being came unto me,
One of angelic birth,
And in most heavenly accents said,
“Those were the poor of earth.”
Then from my dream I woke, but
Will ne’er forget its worth;
For ever since that vision
I have loved “the poor of earth.”
And when I see them toiling on
To earn their daily bread,
And dire oppression crush them down,
Till every joy hath fled,—
I mind me of that better world,
And of that heavenly fold,
Where every crown of thorns gives place
Unto a crown of gold.