Classic Poem

Ye led by hands ye cannot see
To heights ye cannot know,
Who call your God but Destiny,
And say the soul's futurity,
May, or may not, be so,—
Are ye our saints? Are ye the men
To make our Israel whole again?

At least the dear old fables taught
Of hope, and Heaven, and love;
And taught so well that men have wrought
And battled;—for a thing of naught?
Nay, God be judge above!
Within the balance of the Lord,
Their deeds are weightier than your word