Classic Poem

Again, Oh, Lord, we humbly pray
That thou wilt guide our steps aright:
Bless here, this day, tir'd Labour's day!
Oh, fill our souls with love and light!
For failing food, six days in seven,
We till the black town's dust and gloom:
But here we drink the breath of heav'n,
And here to pray the poor have room.
The stately temple, built with hands,
Throws wide its doors to pomp and pride;
But in the porch their beadle stands,
And thrusts the child of toil aside.
Therefore, we seek the daisied plain,
Or climb thy hills, to touch thy feet;
Here, far from splendour's city-fane,
Thy weary sons and daughters meet.
Is it a crime to tell thee here,
That here the sorely-tried are met?
To seek thy face, and find thee near?
And on thy rock our feet to set?
Where, wheeling wide, the plover flies;
Where sings the woodlark on the tree;
Beneath the music of thy skies,
Is it a crime to worship thee?
" We waited long, and sought thee, Lord, "
Content to toil, but not to pine;
And with the weapons of thy Word
Alone, assail'd our foes and thine.
Thy truth and thee, we bade them fear;
They spurn thy truth, and mock our moan!
" Thy counsels, Lord, they will not hear,
And thou hast left them to their own. "