Classic Poem

We need not rise above this mundane sphere,
We need not 'neath the briny deep descend
To find the Deity; but on the path
Where blind Bartimeus begs, the Lord is seen;
Upon the fever couch He lies and burns;
He hungers in the dungeon's dreary cell;
He shivers naked, cold and shelterless;
Where sorrow dwells the Master too abides;
Builders of “house not made with hands” look out
At every window and behold the Lord!