Classic Poem

How we, poor players on Life's little stage,
Thrust blindly at each other in our rage,
Quarrel and fret, yet rashly dare to pray
To God to help us on our selfish way.

We think to move Him with our prayer and praise,
To serve our needs; as in the old Greek days
Their gods came down and mingled in the fight
With mightier arms the flying foe to smite.

The laughter of those gods pealed down to men,
For Heaven was but earth's upper story then
Where goddesses about an apple strove,
And the high gods fell humanly in love.

We own a God whose presence fills the sky,—
Whose sleepless eyes behold the worlds roll by;
Shall not His memory number, one by one,
The sons of men, who calls them each His son?