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 THE POOR MAN'S DAILY BREAD

Not only there where jewelled vestments blaze, And princely prelates bow before Thy shrine, Where myriads line the swept and garnished ways Through which is borne Thy Majesty Divine— O Jesus of the ever loving heart, Not only there Thou art!

But where the lowliest church its cross uplifts Above the city's sordidness and sin; Where all unheeded human wreckage drifts And drowns amid the foulness and the din— There, too, anear the very gates of hell, O Saviour, dost Thou dwell!

Oh, meet it is that round Thy altar thrones, Thy highest priests should ministering throng With silken robe, with gold and precious stones, With solemn chant and loud triumphant song: What beauty that the world could give would be Too beautiful for Thee?

And yet to those that work with grimy hands And sweaty brows in ditches and in drains, Thou comest with a love that understands Their labor ill-requitted, and their pains. Who knows so well as Thou what they endure, O Father of the poor?