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The strong do what they have to do and the weak accept what they have to accept.

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Strong and Not Weak

Work must start with strong resolve
The problem must be over and solved
It should never stop in between
The result will be immediately seen

What makes task easy and smooth?
When you put everything through nail and tooth
It may pave the way for success
When you find master key with access

Through study may make it still easy
When you may involve more to get busy?
It has to make the way for further inroad
Even if it is laden with lots of efforts and load

Fortune may smile with passage of time
The success story may appear many times
Life may become embodiment of ladder
You may go on with success as leader

The honesty and dedication plays great part
Suddenly you don't get it with little start
It has to be slow and steady
But you must always be alert and ready

Let your name be aligned with future
As you have made it amply clear
Success means life that speaks
You are taken as strong and not weak

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Not a Sight For the Weak

An obsession that has addicted...
With traditions held thick,
With desires and things to aspire and climb...
Higher to obtain those symbolic dreams.
And a dripping of teases to attach and cling...
To a love for toys!
And entertainment needs.
Has descended upon the people...
A reality,
That brings an economy to its knees.

This greed has fed generations,
To depend on things to hoard.
Things to establish a standard lived...
For all to score luxurious rewards,
While those fighting in troubled wars...
Are the ones who should receive,
Such accolades and applause that greets.

Suffer they today from conflicts and sefishness.
Suffer today,
From an evil corruption taught.
Just to obtain a slice that pieces an ego to feel,
Accepted and complete.
A deceiving sought...
That depletes their pockets.

And this conformity to be like one's neighbor...
Has brought entire cities and states to the floor.
Slamming the doors where they labored.
To unite together in a massive state of denial!

Still this has them fantasized and deluded.
A demoralized society once revered now begs.
With hopes to prolong their decadent ways...
To keep!
In stubborn mindsets that dreads,
In fear to cause anguish and weeping.

Even though their pleas will not soon see them retreat,
From the glares they give to the homelessness...
Ignored and left,
Unaddressed as one would do to pests.
And yet,
This leaves a sea of stunned faces...
Bracing together in chilling air.
Standing in lines on streets they abandoned,
Back during the times they fled to flea 'minorities'.
When their eyes would dismiss,
Those helpless and hungry,
Those now prioritized...
To be the first to be served to eat!

And this upsets,
Those who were accustomed...
To sniffing their upturned noses,
As they passed those distressed.
While observing the changes,
Of what has come.
To have sit on their shoulders,
With bitterness to weight on bended backs.

And try hard to hide their pride and tears.
Reminiscing a greed...
With a reality close and now feared.
And much too near to their pretensions.
To express digressions obsessed with love.
Is not a sight for the weak.

They have chosen to standby their values!
And what they valued has them living their lives lived bleak.
With a hope that something recognizable returns...
For an evaluation to be given and kept on their terms.

But the motivating of negotiation days have been fading.
Long before they waited in impatience to debate.
In an openness that lifts voices screaming.
And faces tormented with mental illness...
That is too real, to fake or smother one's heartbreak.
This,
Is in the vision!

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Ginevra

Wild, pale, and wonder-stricken, even as one
Who staggers forth into the air and sun
From the dark chamber of a mortal fever,
Bewildered, and incapable, and ever
Fancying strange comments in her dizzy brain
Of usual shapes, till the familiar train
Of objects and of persons passed like things
Strange as a dreamer’s mad imaginings,
Ginevra from the nuptial altar went;
The vows to which her lips had sworn assent
Rung in her brain still with a jarring din,
Deafening the lost intelligence within.

And so she moved under the bridal veil,
Which made the paleness of her cheek more pale,
And deepened the faint crimson of her mouth,
And darkened her dark locks, as moonlight doth,--
And of the gold and jewels glittering there
She scarce felt conscious,--but the weary glare
Lay like a chaos of unwelcome light,
Vexing the sense with gorgeous undelight,
A moonbeam in the shadow of a cloud
Was less heavenly fair--her face was bowed,
And as she passed, the diamonds in her hair
Were mirrored in the polished marble stair
Which led from the cathedral to the street;
And ever as she went her light fair feet
Erased these images.

The bride-maidens who round her thronging came,
Some with a sense of self-rebuke and shame,
Envying the unenviable; and others
Making the joy which should have been another’s
Their own by gentle sympathy; and some
Sighing to think of an unhappy home:
Some few admiring what can ever lure
Maidens to leave the heaven serene and pure
Of parents’ smiles for life’s great cheat; a thing
Bitter to taste, sweet in imagining.

But they are all dispersed--and, lo! she stands
Looking in idle grief on her white hands,
Alone within the garden now her own;
And through the sunny air, with jangling tone,
The music of the merry marriage-bells,
Killing the azure silence, sinks and swells;--
Absorbed like one within a dream who dreams
That he is dreaming, until slumber seems
A mockery of itself--when suddenly
Antonio stood before her, pale as she.
With agony, with sorrow, and with pride,
He lifted his wan eyes upon the bride,
And said--‘Is this thy faith?’ and then as one
Whose sleeping face is stricken by the sun
With light like a harsh voice, which bids him rise
And look upon his day of life with eyes
Which weep in vain that they can dream no more,
Ginevra saw her lover, and forbore
To shriek or faint, and checked the stifling blood
Rushing upon her heart, and unsubdued
Said--‘Friend, if earthly violence or ill,
Suspicion, doubt, or the tyrannic will
Of parents, chance or custom, time or change,
Or circumstance, or terror, or revenge,
Or wildered looks, or words, or evil speech,
With all their stings and venom can impeach
Our love,--we love not:--if the grave which hides
The victim from the tyrant, and divides
The cheek that whitens from the eyes that dart
Imperious inquisition to the heart
That is another’s, could dissever ours,
We love not.’--‘What! do not the silent hours
Beckon thee to Gherardi’s bridal bed?
Is not that ring’--a pledge, he would have said,
Of broken vows, but she with patient look
The golden circle from her finger took,
And said--‘Accept this token of my faith,
The pledge of vows to be absolved by death;
And I am dead or shall be soon—my knell
Will mix its music with that merry bell,
Does it not sound as if they sweetly said
“We toll a corpse out of the marriage-bed”?
The flowers upon my bridal chamber strewn
Will serve unfaded for my bier—so soon
That even the dying violet will not die
Before Ginevra.’ The strong fantasy
Had made her accents weaker and more weak,
And quenched the crimson life upon her cheek,
And glazed her eyes, and spread an atmosphere
Round her, which chilled the burning noon with fear,
Making her but an image of the thought
Which, like a prophet or a shadow, brought
News of the terrors of the coming time.
Like an accuser branded with the crime
He would have cast on a beloved friend,
Whose dying eyes reproach not to the end
The pale betrayer—he then with vain repentance
Would share, he cannot now avert, the sentence--
Antonio stood and would have spoken, when
The compound voice of women and of men
Was heard approaching; he retired, while she
Was led amid the admiring company
Back to the palace,--and her maidens soon
Changed her attire for the afternoon,
And left her at her own request to keep
An hour of quiet rest:--like one asleep
With open eyes and folded hands she lay,
Pale in the light of the declining day.

Meanwhile the day sinks fast, the sun is set,
And in the lighted hall the guests are met;
The beautiful looked lovelier in the light
Of love, and admiration, and delight
Reflected from a thousand hearts and eyes,
Kindling a momentary Paradise.
This crowd is safer than the silent wood,
Where love’s own doubts disturb the solitude;
On frozen hearts the fiery rain of wine
Falls, and the dew of music more divine
Tempers the deep emotions of the time
To spirits cradled in a sunny clime:--
How many meet, who never yet have met,
To part too soon, but never to forget.
How many saw the beauty, power and wit
Of looks and words which ne’er enchanted yet;
But life’s familiar veil was now withdrawn,
As the world leaps before an earthquake’s dawn,
And unprophetic of the coming hours,
The matin winds from the expanded flowers
Scatter their hoarded incense, and awaken
The earth, until the dewy sleep is shaken
From every living heart which it possesses,
Through seas and winds, cities and wildernesses,
As if the future and the past were all
Treasured i’ the instant;--so Gherardi’s hall
Laughed in the mirth of its lord’s festival,
Till some one asked--‘Where is the Bride?’ And then
A bridesmaid went,--and ere she came again
A silence fell upon the guests--a pause
Of expectation, as when beauty awes
All hearts with its approach, though unbeheld;
Then wonder, and then fear that wonder quelled;--
For whispers passed from mouth to ear which drew
The colour from the hearer’s cheeks, and flew
Louder and swifter round the company;
And then Gherardi entered with an eye
Of ostentatious trouble, and a crowd
Surrounded him, and some were weeping loud.

They found Ginevra dead! if it be death
To lie without motion, or pulse, or breath,
With waxen cheeks, and limbs cold, stiff, and white,
And open eyes, whose fixed and glassy light
Mocked at the speculation they had owned.
If it be death, when there is felt around
A smell of clay, a pale and icy glare,
And silence, and a sense that lifts the hair
From the scalp to the ankles, as it were
Corruption from the spirit passing forth,
And giving all it shrouded to the earth,
And leaving as swift lightning in its flight
Ashes, and smoke, and darkness: in our night
Of thought we know thus much of death,—no more
Than the unborn dream of our life before
Their barks are wrecked on its inhospitable shore.
The marriage feast and its solemnity
Was turned to funeral pomp--the company,
With heavy hearts and looks, broke up; nor they
Who loved the dead went weeping on their way
Alone, but sorrow mixed with sad surprise
Loosened the springs of pity in all eyes,
On which that form, whose fate they weep in vain,
Will never, thought they, kindle smiles again.
The lamps which, half extinguished in their haste,
Gleamed few and faint o’er the abandoned feast,
Showed as it were within the vaulted room
A cloud of sorrow hanging, as if gloom
Had passed out of men’s minds into the air.
Some few yet stood around Gherardi there,
Friends and relations of the dead,--and he,
A loveless man, accepted torpidly
The consolation that he wanted not;
Awe in the place of grief within him wrought.
Their whispers made the solemn silence seem
More still--some wept,...
Some melted into tears without a sob,
And some with hearts that might be heard to throb
Leaned on the table and at intervals
Shuddered to hear through the deserted halls
And corridors the thrilling shrieks which came
Upon the breeze of night, that shook the flame
Of every torch and taper as it swept
From out the chamber where the women kept;--
Their tears fell on the dear companion cold
Of pleasures now departed; then was knolled
The bell of death, and soon the priests arrived,
And finding Death their penitent had shrived,
Returned like ravens from a corpse whereon
A vulture has just feasted to the bone.
And then the mourning women came.--

...

THE DIRGE.
Old winter was gone
In his weakness back to the mountains hoar,
And the spring came down
From the planet that hovers upon the shore

Where the sea of sunlight encroaches
On the limits of wintry night;--
If the land, and the air, and the sea,
Rejoice not when spring approaches,
We did not rejoice in thee,
Ginevra!

She is still, she is cold
On the bridal couch,
One step to the white deathbed,
And one to the bier,
And one to the charnel--and one, oh where?
The dark arrow fled
In the noon.

Ere the sun through heaven once more has rolled,
The rats in her heart
Will have made their nest,
And the worms be alive in her golden hair,
While the Spirit that guides the sun,
Sits throned in his flaming chair,
She shall sleep.

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Why You Picking On The Weak?

pick on the weak
do that make you strong?
say what you may,
should i give a hoot,
who are you?
just to tell me?
i'm not your itch,
so don't act like a witch,
say what you may,
i don't care,
you don't know me,
or what i need.
don't say nothing,
just let me be,
becuz people like you,
pick on the weak,
me here,
i won't let you get the best of me.

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Only For The Weak

I can't tolerate your sadness
cause it's me you're drowning
I won't allow any hapiness
cause everytime you laugh, I feel so guilty
"I blame the needs that you feed
cause selfish eyes would not see"
Am I forced to have any regret?
I've become the lie, beutiful and free
In my righteous own mind
I adore and preach the insanity you gave
Sell me the infection, it's only for the weak
No need for sympathy, the misery that is me
No need for sympathy, it's only for the weak)
On bleeding knees I accept my fate
I've lost the ability to paint the clouds
cause it's me you're draining
I'm stuck in this slow-motion dark day
cause everytime you run, I fall behind
"Far away is a place where I hide
the truth that have to be locked away"
And so I hear my voice again
The tale of the bitter man, here I am
Shake the silence and hear what it says
The tranquil pride that become the lie

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The weak rulers

The sword that is fought with
Will not be punished.
The force that is ruled with
Will not be punished.
Rather they are patronized.
The weak rulers lean on them.
02.05.2012

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The weak thrive.

Offence is sown in one
So that one can exist.
Quilt is also sown in one
So that one can retrieve.
So the weak thrive.
13.03.2007

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The weak flesh

Dress of silky black dreams
and marble sphere's layers
Seek nocturnal desire.

Breathe, through her moaning legs.
Like the open wings of a swan,
swing at the blue sun.

Contemplate, the rise over the devil course,
upon the weak flesh.
So good that death, may be sweet in our tongue.
That no Gods temptations, and afterlife,
dead will never rise.

Blandness flash swallows.
Redeemed pleasure of cast lights.

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Flavor Of The Weak (Radio Edit)

She paints her nails
And she don't know he's got her best friend on the phone
She'll wash her hair his dirty clothes are all he gives to her
And he's got posters on the walls
Of all the girls he wished she was
(Bridge)And he means everything to her

(Chorus)Her Boyfriend he don't know anything about her
He's 2-stonned nintendo
I wish that i could her see
She's just the flavor of the weak

It's friday night and she's all alone
He's a million miles away
She's dressed to kill but the TV's on
He's conected to the sound
And he's got pictures on the walls
Of all the girls he's loved before
(Bridge)And he means everything to her

(Chorus2)Her Boyfriend he don't know anything about her
He's two-stonned nintendo

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You'll Always Have Me

The hurting time has come
And now your whole world has come undone
When youyou lose your heart you can't go on
What you think is love is really, really not that strong
Chorus:
When you're all alone and need someone around
Just remember I won't let you down
When you finally find just what you're looking for
They close a door, someone has set you free
You'll always have me
There's no use to pretend
Just gotta find the strength to start again
'Cause when you lose it all, it's so unfair
When you're down and out, you call me and I'll be there
(Chorus)
Ooh don't slip away
When darkness comes you realize
(Solo)
(Chorus)

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What Makes Me Crazy? -Lila's Story

They found me one day
wandering the wilderness,
hearing voices.

They found me one day
saying 'I hear voices
as clearly as you hear my voice
in this room
yet no one else hears
so that makes me crazy?
The voices denigrate me.
They deny me
and what I want is for them to go away.

Yet, when they speak
they mock me
saying
'they can't hear us because we are blocking them'
and they think you are crazy- this is what makes
us strong
and you weak.'

I hear these voices
and have to drown them out
so I don't hear.
So I don't hear
So I can sleep.

What I need is someone
who believes me:
they know if someone does
their power
is gone.

Does that make me crazy?
I don't think so..

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Oh, The Sermons!

Season aren’t feasible
By the duress of convention
And no conclusion is without bias.
Conclusions could be geographical!

The strong are the weak
The weak are the weak
They have lost nothing
And are still no champions.
The weak are no heroes
The weak could never dare for will

The strong are comforted by memories
The act of memory transcending
The submerged to trance.
But that precarious art would
Ever dilapidate earth.
True will original mentor
The strong can resume from their pause.
It only takes the fallen to
Uphold a belief. You alone can
Describe what is in it.

Oh, don’t you see? Don’t you see?
Let the laughter of babies inspire you
They laugh without restriction.
Adults laugh half way
Adults are always hampered by sorrow
They only go for laughter evanescent

There is still a vacuum
And nothing fits this vacuum
But the vacuum wasn’t there in childhood
Babies have will
But adults never know when
Such absconds
Oh, where are the sermons of life?
We know in life,
some seasons are more dominant.

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The Castle

All through that summer at ease we lay,
And daily from the turret wall
We watched the mowers in the hay
And the enemy half a mile away
They seemed no threat to us at all.

For what, we thought, had we to fear
With our arms and provender, load on load,
Our towering battlements, tier on tier,
And friendly allies drawing near
On every leafy summer road.

Our gates were strong, our walls were thick,
So smooth and high, no man could win
A foothold there, no clever trick
Could take us, have us dead or quick.
Only a bird could have got in.

What could they offer us for bait?
Our captain was brave and we were true....
There was a little private gate,
A little wicked wicket gate.
The wizened warder let them through.

Oh then our maze of tunneled stone
Grew thin and treacherous as air.
The cause was lost without a groan,
The famous citadel overthrown,
And all its secret galleries bare.

How can this shameful tale be told?
I will maintain until my death
We could do nothing, being sold;
Our only enemy was gold,
And we had no arms to fight it with.

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King Solomon and the Ants

Out from Jerusalem
The king rode with his great
War chiefs and lords of state,
And Sheba's queen with them;

Comely, but black withal,
To whom, perchance, belongs
That wondrous Song of songs,
Sensuous and mystical,

Whereto devout souls turn
In fond, ecstatic dream,
And through its earth-born theme
The Love of loves discern.

Proud in the Syrian sun,
In gold and purple sheen,
The dusky Ethiop queen
Smiled on King Solomon.

Wisest of men, he knew
The languages of all
The creatures great or small
That trod the earth or flew.

Across an ant-hill led
The king's path, and he heard
Its small folk, and their word
He thus interpreted:

'Here comes the king men greet
As wise and good and just,
To crush us in the dust
Under his heedless feet.'

The great king bowed his head,
And saw the wide surprise
Of the Queen of Sheba's eyes
As he told her what they said.

'O king!' she whispered sweet,
'Too happy fate have they
Who perish in thy way
Beneath thy gracious feet!

'Thou of the God-lent crown,
Shall these vile creatures dare
Murmur against thee where
The knees of kings kneel down?'

'Nay,' Solomon replied,
'The wise and strong should seek
The welfare of the weak,'
And turned his horse aside.

His train, with quick alarm,
Curved with their leader round
The ant-hill's peopled mound,
And left it free from harm.

The jewelled head bent low;
'O king!' she said, 'henceforth
The secret of thy worth
And wisdom well I know.

'Happy must be the State
Whose ruler heedeth more
The murmurs of the poor
Than flatteries of the great.'

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Praises to the Eldest

Praises to the eldest of siblings!
You know...
The ones parents experiment with?
The ones some plan for...
And rush to grow up,
To get it right with the other 'younger' kids!

Everything is tried on the eldest first.
Whether it is good or bad,
The eldest is going to get it first...
Not the one to get it last!
That comes after the eldest...
Has to grow up fast!

Blamed for something that was not done.
Doing chores while the younger ones have fun.
Being held accountable,
And being told to become more responsible!
Getting sick?
Forget it.
Pretending not to be,
Is what the elder one...
Chooses the younger ones not to see!

He or she has to prove how strong he or she has to be!
And making demands the eldest has to do.
They know when they've been ignored like a pair of old shoes!
And don't be a male in a family of females.
There is nothing right the eldest one can do!
The younger ones will accuse the eldest.
And get away with it too!
Like lieing about what the eldest one does.
Because the eldest one,
Is the one born that everyone likes to pick on...
To abuse and use!
Until the eldest one decides to leave the nest...
To do what he or she chooses to do best.

Growing older alone...
And finding themselves in a home,
The eldest one had said...
Never again they would return,
To hear the bitching, groaning and moans.
And finding themselves with no one there,
To care what the eldest does.
With who...
Or if anyone is there to share!
But...
It is soooo peaceful!

'Thank you,
Father God!
THIS has indeed been earned! '

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A Voice Of The Loyal North

1861

JANUARY THIRD

WE sing 'Our Country's' song to-night
With saddened voice and eye;
Her banner droops in clouded light
Beneath the wintry sky.
We'll pledge her once in golden wine
Before her stars have set
Though dim one reddening orb may shine,
We have a Country yet.

'T were vain to sigh o'er errors past,
The fault of sires or sons;
Our soldier heard the threatening blast,
And spiked his useless guns;
He saw the star-wreathed ensign fall,
By mad invaders torn;
But saw it from the bastioned wall
That laughed their rage to scorn!

What though their angry cry is flung
Across the howling wave,--
They smite the air with idle tongue
The gathering storm who brave;
Enough of speech! the trumpet rings;
Be silent, patient, calm,--
God help them if the tempest swings
The pine against the palm!

Our toilsome years have made us tame;
Our strength has slept unfelt;
The furnace-fire is slow to flame
That bids our ploughshares melt;
'T is hard to lose the bread they win
In spite of Nature's frowns,--
To drop the iron threads we spin
That weave our web of towns,

To see the rusting turbines stand
Before the emptied flumes,
To fold the arms that flood the land
With rivers from their looms,--
But harder still for those who learn
The truth forgot so long;
When once their slumbering passions burn,
The peaceful are the strong!

The Lord have mercy on the weak,
And calm their frenzied ire,
And save our brothers ere they shriek,
'We played with Northern fire!'
The eagle hold his mountain height,--
The tiger pace his den
Give all their country, each his right!
God keep us all! Amen!

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The Lady of the Motor Car

The Lady of the Motor-car she stareth straight ahead;
Her face is like the stone, my friend, her face is like the dead;
Her face is like the stone, my friend, because she is “well-bred”—
Because her heart is dead, my friend, as all her life was dead.
The Lady of the Motor-car she speaketh like a man,
Because her girlhood never was, nor womanhood began.
She says, “To the Aus-traliah, John!” and “Home” when she hath been.
And to the husband at her side she says, “Whhat doo you mean?”

The Lady of the Motor-car her very soul is dead,
Because she never helped herself nor had to work for bread;
The Lady of the Motor-car sits in her sitting-room,
Her stony face has never changed though all the land is gloom.

Her motor-car hath gone to hell—the hell that man hath made;
She sitteth in her sitting-room, and she is not afraid;
Nor fear of life or death, or worse, could change her well-bred mien;
She knits socks in a stony way, and says, “Whhat doo they mean?”

The lady in her carriage sits, with cushions turning green—
And once it was a mourning-coach, and once it held a queen.
Behind a coachman and a horse too old to go to war,
She driveth to her “four o’clocks” and to her sick and poor.

And when the enemy bombards and walls begin to fall,
The Lady of the Motor-car shall stand above you all;
Amongst the strong and silent brave, and those who pray or shriek,
She’ll nurse the wounded from the grave and pacify the weak.

And if the enemy prevails, with death on every side,
The Lady of the Car shall die as heroines have died,
But if the victory remains, she’ll be what she hath been,
And, sitting in her motor-car, shall say: “
Whhat doo you mean?

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The Outlaw

A wild and woeful race he ran
Of lust and sin by land and sea;
Until, abhorred of God and man,
They swung him from the gallows-tree.
And then he climbed the Starry Stair,
And dumb and naked and alone,
With head unbowed and brazen glare,
He stood before the Judgment Throne.

The Keeper of the Records spoke:
"This man, O Lord, has mocked Thy Name.
The weak have wept beneath his yoke,
The strong have fled before his flame.
The blood of babes is on his sword;
His life is evil to the brim:
Look down, decree his doom, O Lord!
Lo! there is none will speak for him."

The golden trumpets blew a blast
That echoed in the crypts of Hell,
For there was Judgment to be passed,
And lips were hushed and silence fell.
The man was mute; he made no stir,
Erect before the Judgment Seat . . .
When all at once a mongrel cur
Crept out and cowered and licked his feet.

It licked his feet with whining cry.
Come Heav'n, come Hell, what did it care?
It leapt, it tried to catch his eye;
Its master, yea, its God was there.
Then, as a thrill of wonder sped
Through throngs of shining seraphim,
The Judge of All looked down and said:
"Lo! here is ONE who pleads for him.

"And who shall love of these the least,
And who by word or look or deed
Shall pity show to bird or beast,
By Me shall have a friend in need.
Aye, though his sin be black as night,
And though he stand 'mid men alone,
He shall be softened in My sight,
And find a pleader by My Throne.

"So let this man to glory win;
From life to life salvation glean;
By pain and sacrifice and sin,
Until he stand before Me -- clean.
For he who loves the least of these
(And here I say and here repeat)
Shall win himself an angel's pleas
For Mercy at My Judgment Seat."

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Anne Brontë

A Word to the Calvinists

You may rejoice to think yourselves secure,
You may be grateful for the gift divine,
That grace unsought which made your black hearts pure
And fits your earthborn souls in Heaven to shine.
But is it sweet to look around and view
Thousands excluded from that happiness,
Which they deserve at least as much as you,
Their faults not greater nor their virtues less?

And wherefore should you love your God the more
Because to you alone his smiles are given,
Because He chose to pass the many o'er
And only bring the favoured few to Heaven?

And wherefore should your hearts more grateful prove
Because for all the Saviour did not die?
Is yours the God of justice and of love
And are your bosoms warm with charity?

Say does your heart expand to all mankind
And would you ever to your neighbour do,
- The weak, the strong, the enlightened and the blind -­
As you would have your neighbour do to you?

And, when you, looking on your fellow men
Behold them doomed to endless misery,
How can you talk of joy and rapture then?
May God withhold such cruel joy from me!

That none deserve eternal bliss I know:
Unmerited the grace in mercy given,
But none shall sink to everlasting woe
That have not well deserved the wrath of Heaven.

And, O! there lives within my heart
A hope long nursed by me,
(And should its cheering ray depart
How dark my soul would be)

That as in Adam all have died
In Christ shall all men live
And ever round his throne abide
Eternal praise to give;

That even the wicked shall at last
Be fitted for the skies
And when their dreadful doom is past
To life and light arise.

I ask not how remote the day
Nor what the sinner's woe
Before their dross is purged away,
Enough for me to know

That when the cup of wrath is drained,
The metal purified,
They'll cling to what they once disdained,
And live by Him that died.

poem by from Poems by Currer, Ellis, and Acton Bell (1846)Report problemRelated quotes
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Anne Brontë

A Word To The 'Elect

You may rejoice to think yourselves secure;
You may be grateful for the gift divine --
That grace unsought, which made your black hearts pure,
And fits your earth-born souls in Heaven to shine.
But, is it sweet to look around, and view
Thousands excluded from that happiness,
Which they deserved, at least, as much as you, --
Their faults not greater, nor their virtues less?

And, wherefore should you love your God the more,
Because to you alone his smiles are given;
Because he chose to pass the many o'er,
And only bring the favoured few to Heaven?

And, wherefore should your hearts more grateful prove,
Because for ALL the Saviour did not die?
Is yours the God of justice and of love
And are your bosoms warm with charity?

Say, does your heart expand to all mankind?
And, would you ever to your neighbour do --
The weak, the strong, the enlightened, and the blind -­
As you would have your neighbour do to you?

And, when you, looking on your fellow-men,
Behold them doomed to endless misery,
How can you talk of joy and rapture then? --
May God withhold such cruel joy from me!

That none deserve eternal bliss I know;
Unmerited the grace in mercy given:
But, none shall sink to everlasting woe,
That have not well deserved the wrath of Heaven.

And, Oh! there lives within my heart
A hope, long nursed by me;
(And, should its cheering ray depart,
How dark my soul would be!)

That as in Adam all have died,
In Christ shall all men live;
And ever round his throne abide,
Eternal praise to give.

That even the wicked shall at last
Be fitted for the skies;
And, when their dreadful doom is past,
To life and light arise.

I ask not, how remote the day,
Nor what the sinner's woe,
Before their dross is purged away;
Enough for me, to know

That when the cup of wrath is drained,
The metal purified,
They'll cling to what they once disdained,
And live by Him that died.

Acton

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