Classic Poem

O Man of my own people, I alone
Among these alien people can know thy face,
I who felt the kinship of our race
Burn in me as I sit where they intone
Thy praise — those who striving to make known
A God of sacrifice have missed the grace
Of thy sweet human meaning in its place,
Thou who art of our blood bond and our own,
Are we not sharers of thy passion? ... Yea
In spent anguish close by the side
We drained the bitter cup and tortured, felt
With the bruising of each heavy welt.
In every land is our Gethsemane
A thousand times have we been crucified.