Classic Poem

Why will ye die? the question breaks
On the world's slumbers as of old;
And many a weary bosom aches
With strange deep yearnings uncontroll'd,
But cannot, dare not answer, why
It chooses, not to live, but die.

Can pleasure with its witching powers,
Its fleeting lights, its idle mirth,
Fulfil these craving hearts of ours
That know and feel their heavenly birth;
Or stand the scrutiny besought
In one still hour of steadfast thought?

Can rank and riches, pomp and pride,
With all the homage they command,
And all the treasure trove beside
Which learning gleans from every land,
Build up a lordly citadel
In which the soul of man may dwell?

Can sin with its wild maddening sense
Of freedom fetterless by law,
Which smiles on trampled innocence
And scorns the rule of holy awe,
Be always in the sinner's breast
A well-spring of delight and rest?

What mean then all those bitter cries
Re-echoing creation's moan,
The wail of many centuries,
And haply loudest in our own,
So loud and bitter one might dream
They marr'd the songs of seraphim?

What mean they? but that man is great,
Too great, too nobly plann'd, too high,
In God's similitude create,
For aught but God to satisfy?
What mean they? guilt if unforgiven
Would make a very hell of heaven.

Why will ye die? the Spirit pleads
With you who long have grieved His love;
And Christ in glory intercedes
As Priest upon the throne above.
O men, your Father asks you, Why
You wound His heart and will to die?