City of merchants, lords of trade and gold,
Traffickers great as they that bought and sold
When ships of Tarshish came to Tyre of old;

City of festering streets by Misery trod,
Where half-fed half-clad children swarm unshod,
While thou dost rear thy splendid fane to God;

O rich in fruits and grains and oils and ores,
And all things that the feastful Earth outpours,
Yet lacking leechcraft for thy leprous sores!

Heal thee betimes, and cleanse thee, lest in ire
He whom thou mock'st with pomp of arch and spire
Come on thee sleeping, with a scythe of fire.

Let nave and transept rest awhile; but when
Thou hast done His work who lived and died for men,
Then build His temple on high — not, not till then.
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