Classic Poem

The Lord beholds, with piercing eyes,
The despots, who his poor despise;
And soon will pour his burning wrath
On ev'ry scoffing tyrant's path.

Since he—the haughty sinner—gave
No freedom to his suppliant slave,
But spurn'd the wretched from his door,
And broke the broken-hearted more;—

Since cursing is his soul's delight,
His curses on himself shall light;
He seeks no blessing on his kind—
No blessing he himself shall find.

In robes of cursing, see him dress'd!
But ah! the curse shall pierce his breast,
Shall penetrate his flesh and bones,
Till all his soul with anguish groans.

With curses cloth'd, with curses girt,
He soon shall reap his full desert;
This—this shall be their dire reward,
Who, in his poor, oppress the Lord.