by William H. Cranston
Life's but a dreary waste, at best,
O'ercast with clouds of gloom,
And storms attack the bravest hearts,
Sojourning to the tomb;
The sunshine of this cheerless world
But seldom gilds our road,
And all must meekly bear the weight
Of Sorrow's heavy load.
We need each other's sympathy,
A kind and cheering look;
But oh! a brother's bitter word
We cannot calmly brook;
Judge gently of his actions here,
Nor frown without a cause,
This is the Charity we learn
From God's unerring laws.
He can protect an injured one,
From His high throne above,
And clothe him in the spotless garb
Of His all matchless love;
Oh, surely, then, should mortal man
No wiser claim to be
Than He who rules our destinies
Through all eternity.
Seek not to crush thy fellow man
By Slander's pois'nous breath,
For thou art but a fragile thing,
A victim, too, for death;
However high thy station be,
Thy motives good and pure,
A damning breath may blast thy fame,
For thou art not secure.
Deal kindly with thy fellow man
In all the walks of life,
And God will give us strength to bear
Our burden in the strife;
"Judge not, lest ye be judged,” he says,
So all thine anger check,
And think,—to-morrow's sun may sink
Upon thy mournful wreck!