Classic Poem

See, Stranger, there the famous Cripples wait
At the high Pillars of the Temple Gate,
Hoping the Rich, who in that Holy Place
Solicit Mercy and Celestial Grace,
Who Alms Divine and Heav'nly Gifts receive,
Will, in Exchange, some Temp'ral Succours give.
Yet to the craving naked Creatures, few
Express the Pity to their Sorrow due.
No Wight, so very beggarly and poor,
Did ever importune a Rich Man's Door.
Ne'er in a living Object did we see
Such moving Want, such perfect Misery.
Pale Cheeks, sunk Eyes, and ghastly Meagerness,
Famine, in all its woful State, express.
Their Bones, distorted from their Place, begin
To start, and break the loathsome wither'd Skin.
How slack their Sinews are? their Limbs how lame?
How shatter'd all the breathing Engine's Frame?
Diseas'd, decrepit, and with Hunger worn,
The Wretches make a Figure so forlorn,
That all Spectators must Compassion show
To such Distress and undissembled Woe.

Soon as the great Apostles they espy'd,
Aloud for Alms the crawling Cripples cry'd;
With fruitless Accents they for Silver pray
To these blest Men, who were as Poor as They.
Yet they solicit with such earnest Cries,
And on th' Apostles fix such eager Eyes,
As if they firmly thought, but knew not why,
That these kind Strangers would their Wants supply;
Which soon they did, not by bestowing Wealth,
But a far dearer Blessing, perfect Health;
The Apostle only speaks the high Command,
And the rejoycing Cripples rise and stand.