In Prison

God pity the wretched prisoners,   In their lonely cells to-day! Whatever the sins that tripped them,   God pity them! still I say. Only a strip of sunshine,   Cleft by rusty bars; Only a patch of azure,   Only a cluster of stars; Only a barren future,   To starve their hope upon; Only stinging memories   Of a past that’s better gone; Only scorn from women,   Only hate from men, Only remorse to whisper   Of a life that might have been. Once they were little children,   And perhaps their unstained feet Were led by a gentle mother   Toward the golden street; Therefore, if in life’s forest   They since have lost their way, For the sake of her who loved them,   God pity them! still I say. O mothers gone to heaven!   With earnest heart I ask That your eyes may not look earthward   On the failure of your task. For even in those mansions   The choking tears would rise, Though the fairest hand in heaven   Would wipe them from your eyes! And you, who judge so harshly,   Are you sure the stumbling-stone That tripped the feet of others   Might not have bruised your own? Are you sure the sad-faced angel   Who writes our errors down Will ascribe to you more honor   Than him on whom you frown? Or, if a steadier purpose   Unto your life is given; A stronger will to conquer,   A smoother path to heaven; If, when temptations meet you,   You crush them with a smile; If you can chain pale passion   And keep your lips from guile; Then bless the hand that crowned you,   Remembering, as you go, ’T was not your own endeavor   That shaped your nature so; And sneer not at the weakness   Which made a brother fall, For the hand that lifts the fallen,   God loves the best of all! And pray for the wretched prisoners   All over the land to-day, That a holy hand in pity   May wipe their guilt away.