Classic Poem

God is not dumb, that He should speak no more;
If thou hast wanderings in the wilderness
And findest not Sinai, 'tis thy soul is poor;
There towers the Mountain of the Voice no less,
Which whoso seeks shall find; but he who bends,
Intent on manna still and mortal ends,
Sees it not, neither hears its thundered lore.

Slowly the Bible of the race is writ,
And not on paper leaves nor leaves of stone;
Each age, each kindred, adds a verse to it,
Texts of despair and hope, of joy or moan.
While swings the sea, while mists the mountains shroud,
While thunders' surges burst on cliff of cloud,
Still at the prophets' feet the nations sit.