O grievous woe, when souls profess the Name
Yet chase the fleeting fashions of the age,
And know the lore of courts and poets’ fame
Far better than the Christ who calmed the rage
Of Galilee’s wild sea. What tragedy
When hearts, baptized in Jordan’s ancient stream,
Drink deeper from the wells of vanity
Than from the living Fount, the endless Theme
Of Heaven’s Lamb, whose wounds still bleed for thee.

The marble busts of Athens line their walls,
The verses of old Rome they can recite;
They trace the Renaissance in gilded halls
And quote the wits of Paris by firelight.
Yet scarce can name the Beatitudes’ pure light,
Or linger long where Golgotha once stood,
Or speak with trembling of that dreadful night
When Love Incarnate bowed His head for good
And cried, “Forgiven,” from the cursed wood.

This ought not be. The Shepherd calls His sheep
From Babel’s glittering towers and siren song;
He bids them leave the meadows where they creep
Among the tares, and where the world belongs.
Return, O ransomed ones, to Scripture’s page—
There burns the Bush that time cannot consume;
There walks the Word through every storm and age,
The Alpha and Omega, Sun and Tomb,
Whose knowledge is eternal life, not doom.

Awake, beloved! Let culture serve as slave,
Not master of the soul redeemed by grace.
Let every knee before the Cross be bowed,
And every tongue confess the Saviour’s face.
For what shall profit all the world’s applause
If, knowing much of men, we know not God?
O tragedy reversed when Christ is Cause—
The Pearl of greatest price, the living Word,
Our treasure, portion, joy, and great reward.