Or make you one of wood or stoneThat you can call your very own,A thing to feel and touch and stroke,Who does not break you with a yokeOf iron that he whispers soft;Nor promise you fine things aloftWhile back and belly here go bare,While His own image walks so spareAnd finds this life so hard to liveYou doubt that He has aught to give.Better an idol shaped of clayNear you, than one so far away.Although it may not heed your labors,At least it will not mind your neighbors'.'In His own time, He will unfoldYou milk and honey, streets of gold,High walls of jasper . . . ' phrases rolledUpon the tongues of idiots.What profit then, if hunger glutsUs now? Better my God should beThis moving, breathing frame of me,Strong hands and feet, live heart and eyes;And when these cease, say then God dies.Your God is somewhere worlds awayHunting a star He shot astray;Oh, He has weightier things to doThan lavish time on me and you.
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