“But the Greatest of These is Charity”

White faces turn to us again
Sad eyes from out their veils of clay:
Strength stricken low, and hopeless pain,
Haunt us to-day.
Their wild eyes burn across our sleep:
They haunt us in the busy throng
With silent eloquence, more deep
Than word or song.

Give: we are pawns upon the board;
We see not how Fate’s dice are thrown.
The life swung by a trembling cord
Might be your own.

Give: ’twill be meted back to thee
When Death who waits, soe’er we roam,
Withdraws the veil that we may see
The Lights of Home.