Page:Zinzendorff and Other Poems.pdf/82

82  Up, cleanse yourselves From this dark vestige of a barbarous age, Sons of the Gospel's everlasting light! Nor let a brother of your own blest clime Rear'd in your very gates, participant Of freedom and salvation's birthright, find Less favor than the heathen. It would seem That man who for the fleeting breath he draws Is still a debtor and hath nought to pay, He, who to cancel countless sins expects Unbounded clemency, 'twould seem that he Might to his fellow-man be pitiful, And show that mercy which himself implores.

 

seen upon the City's bound
 * The Sabbath Evening close,

But thoughtless throngs with varied sound
 * Disturb'd its blest repose;

I've mark'd it o'er the rural scene Unfold its stainless wing serene
 * While hush'd to concord sweet,

Breeze, grove, and dell and stream combin'd To sooth that silence of the mind
 * Which woos the Paraclete.

