James Russell Lowell

A Contrast

Thy love thou sendest oft to me,
 And still as oft I thrust it back;
Thy messengers I could not see
 In those who everything did lack,
 The poor, the outcast and the black.
 
Pride held his hand before mine eyes,
 The world with flattery stuffed mine ears;
I looked to see a monarch’s guise,
 Nor dreamed thy love would knock for years,
 Poor, naked, fettered, full of tears.
 
Yet, when I sent my love to thee,
 Thou with a smile didst take it in,
And entertain’dst it royally,
 Though grimed with earth, with hunger thin,
 And leprous with the taint of sin.
 
Now every day thy love I meet,
 As o’er the earth it wanders wide,
With weary step and bleeding feet,
 Still knocking at the heart of pride
 And offering grace, though still denied.
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