Classic Poem

Ah , how shall we, lame from the mother's womb,
The temple enter! Beautiful in vain
For us, the gate, where we, in double pain,
Of suffering and of loss, can find no room;
Whose whiteness only makes our outer gloom
The blacker, and whose shining steps, more plain
Than words, mock cripples weeping to attain
The inner courts, where censers, sweet perfume,
And music fill the air!
O sinful fear!
Dare not to doubt. Our helplessness laid near
That gate, is safe; our faith without alarms
Can wait; the good apostles will appear;
Our crippled beggary, made rich by alms
Of God, shall leap and praise, in grateful psalms.