Page:Zinzendorff and Other Poems.pdf/288

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The downward road, how fearful steep, The upward cliff, how hard to climb, He only knows, whose records keep The nameless countless grades of crime.

Scorn not the sinner, thou whose heart In purpose pure is garner'd strong; Claims penitence with thee no part? Doth pride to mortal man belong?

By all thy follies unforgiven, Wert thou at death's dread hour accus'd Even thou might at the gate of heaven, In terror knock, and be refus'd.

 

is yon sable bier? Why move the throng so slow? Why doth that lonely mother's tear In bursting anguish flow? Why is the sleeper laid To rest in manhood s pride? How gain'd his cheek such pallid shade? I ask'd, but none replied.

Then spake the hoarse wave low, The vexing billow sigh'd, And blended sounds of bitter woe Came o'er the echoing tide, 