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158 Till in the midst of its unholy feast descends the
 * sudden shaft of heaven piercing its heart of
 * grossness.

The crimson glow of light on the horizon is not the
 * light of thy dawn of peace, my Motherland.

It is the glimmer of the funeral pyre burning to
 * ashes the vast flesh,—the self-love of the
 * Nation,—dead under its own excess.

Thy morning waits behind the patient dark of the
 * East,
 * Meek and silent.

Keep watch, India. Bring your offerings of worship for that sacred
 * sunrise.

Let the first hymn of its welcome sound in your
 * voice, and sing,

"Come, Peace, thou daughter of God's own great
 * suffering.

Come with thy treasure of contentment, the sword
 * of fortitude,
 * And meekness crowning thy forehead."