Classic Poem

" I go: the poor, My poor are with you still,
And ye may help them when and as ye will. "

Such was the legacy Incarnate Love
Bequeath'd His own before He soar'd above.

Not gold or jewels, but His poor to claim
Our succour for the sake of His dear name.

No weary burden, but a rich bequest,
Whereby who blesses is himself twice bless'd.

Is it not ours to-day? Are not the poor,
The hungry and the naked, at our door?

And do not still the moans of anguish rise,
By day and night from sufferers to the skies?

And does not many a sorer, deeper need
Than poverty or pain for mercy plead?

The wounded soul, the broken heart's distress;
Tears of the widow and the fatherless?

And He, who gave Himself for all, has given
To us His servants of the balm of heaven.

Kind thoughts and tender words and generous tasks,
These for His sorrowing ones the Master asks.

None are so poor but have some love to shower
On poorer than themselves, and this is power.

This is the worship pure and undefiled
The Father claims of every heaven-born child.