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.
In Prison
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