Worship

There is no worship now,—the idol stands
Within the spirit's holy resting place!
Millions before it bend with upraised hands,
And with their gifts God's purer shrine disgrace;
The prophet walks unhonored mid the crowd
That to the idol's temple daily throng;
His voice unheard above their voices loud,
His strength too feeble 'gainst the torrent strong;
But there are bounds that ocean's rage can stay
When wave on wave leaps madly to the shore:
And soon-the prophet's word shall men obey,
And hushed to peace the billows cease to roar;
For he who spoke—and warring winds kept peace,
Commands again—and man's wild passions cease.