Classic Poem

Our Father God! behold us raise
Our hopes, our thoughts, our hearts, to thee;
Not now to lift the hymn of praise,
But humbly bow the suppliant knee.

For we have sinn'd before thy face,
Have seen unmov'd our brother's woe,
Though on his cheek hot tear-drops trace
Deep furrows in their burning flow.

We knew that on his limbs were bound
The fetters man should never wear;
We knew that darkness hemm'd him round,
And grief, and anguish, and despair.

We knew — but in our selfish hearts,
There wak'd no throb of answ'ring pain;
Yet now, at last, the tear-drop starts,
We mourn the pris'ner's galling chain.

We weep, repenting of the pride,
That chill'd our narrow souls so long;
O Father! may that suppliant tide
Efface our deep and cruel wrong!