THE VIRGINIA SCAFFOLD.
215
And in fields of rice and cotton when the hot noon passes slow,
Till his name shall be a watchword from Missouri to the sea,
And his planting find its reaping in the birthday of the Free!
Till his name shall be a watchword from Missouri to the sea,
And his planting find its reaping in the birthday of the Free!
Christ, the crucified, attend him! Weak and erring though he be,
In his measure he has striven, suffering Lord! to love like Thee!
Thou the vine,—thy friends the branches,—is he not a branch of thine,
Though some dregs from earthly vintage have defiled the heavenly wine?
Now his tendrils lie unclasped, bruised, and prostrate on the sod,—
Take him to thine upper garden where the husbandman is God!
In his measure he has striven, suffering Lord! to love like Thee!
Thou the vine,—thy friends the branches,—is he not a branch of thine,
Though some dregs from earthly vintage have defiled the heavenly wine?
Now his tendrils lie unclasped, bruised, and prostrate on the sod,—
Take him to thine upper garden where the husbandman is God!
