 | Songs of Religion and Life |  |
96
Sancte Socrates, ora pro Nobis!
Dear God, by wrathful routs
How is thy Church divided,
And how may he that doubts
In such turmoil be guided!
When weeping I behold
How Christian people quarrel,
Ofttimes from Heathens old
I fetch a saintly moral;
And while they fret with rage
The sore-distraught community,
I look for some Greek sage
Who preaches peace and unity.
And thus I pray:
O Sancte Socrates, ora pro nobis!
Let faith and love and joy increase,
And reason rule and wrangling cease,
Good saint, we pray thee!
How is thy Church divided,
And how may he that doubts
In such turmoil be guided!
When weeping I behold
How Christian people quarrel,
Ofttimes from Heathens old
I fetch a saintly moral;
And while they fret with rage
The sore-distraught community,
I look for some Greek sage
Who preaches peace and unity.
And thus I pray:
97
Let faith and love and joy increase,
And reason rule and wrangling cease,
Good saint, we pray thee!
They pile a priestly fence
Of vain scholastic babble,
To keep out common sense
With the unlearnèd rabble.
A curious creed they weave,
And, for the Church commands it,
All men must needs believe,
Though no man understands it;
Thus, while they rudely ban
All honest thought as treason,
I from the Heathen clan
Seek solace to my reason,
And thus I pray:
O Sancte Socrates, ora pro nobis!
From creeds that men believe because
They fear a damnatory clause,
Good saint, deliver us!
Of vain scholastic babble,
To keep out common sense
With the unlearnèd rabble.
A curious creed they weave,
And, for the Church commands it,
All men must needs believe,
Though no man understands it;
Thus, while they rudely ban
All honest thought as treason,
I from the Heathen clan
Seek solace to my reason,
And thus I pray:
O Sancte Socrates, ora pro nobis!
From creeds that men believe because
98
Good saint, deliver us!
Some preach a God so grim
That, when his anger swelleth,
They crouch and cower to him
When sacred fear compelleth;
God loves his few pet lambs,
And saves his one pet nation,
The rest he largely damns
With swinging reprobation.
Thus banished from the fold,
I wisely choose to follow
Some sunny preacher old
Who worshipped bright Apollo;
And thus I pray:
O Sancte Socrates, ora pro nobis!
From silly flocks of petted lambs,
And from a faith that largely damns,
Good saint, deliver us!
That, when his anger swelleth,
They crouch and cower to him
When sacred fear compelleth;
God loves his few pet lambs,
And saves his one pet nation,
The rest he largely damns
With swinging reprobation.
Thus banished from the fold,
I wisely choose to follow
Some sunny preacher old
Who worshipped bright Apollo;
And thus I pray:
O Sancte Socrates, ora pro nobis!
From silly flocks of petted lambs,
And from a faith that largely damns,
Good saint, deliver us!
99
And some do strongly strive
By light of noonday taper,
The guilty soul to shrive
With many a gest and caper;
With candlestick and bells,
With postures and grimaces,
With wealth of holy spells,
And lack of lovely graces;
And when I see increase
These feats of antic duty,
I turn me back to Greece
Where truth was wed to beauty,
And thus I pray:
O Sancte Socrates, ora pro nobis!
From quaint religion tricked in laces,
From genuflexions and grimaces,
Good saint, deliver us!
By light of noonday taper,
The guilty soul to shrive
With many a gest and caper;
With candlestick and bells,
With postures and grimaces,
With wealth of holy spells,
And lack of lovely graces;
And when I see increase
These feats of antic duty,
I turn me back to Greece
Where truth was wed to beauty,
And thus I pray:
O Sancte Socrates, ora pro nobis!
From quaint religion tricked in laces,
From genuflexions and grimaces,
Good saint, deliver us!
And some there be that say,
That through their veins a virtue
Doth run to charm away
All ills that flesh is heir to;
And from their finger-tips
A sacred tremor passes,
To ope the braying lips
Of Apostolic asses;
From ferment I abstain
Of such high-churchly preachers,
And keep myself quite sane
By sober Attic teachers!
And thus I pray:
O Sancte Socrates, ora pro nobis!
From men that say wide earth contains
No truth but creeps through priestly veins,
Good saint, deliver us!
That through their veins a virtue
100
All ills that flesh is heir to;
And from their finger-tips
A sacred tremor passes,
To ope the braying lips
Of Apostolic asses;
From ferment I abstain
Of such high-churchly preachers,
And keep myself quite sane
By sober Attic teachers!
And thus I pray:
O Sancte Socrates, ora pro nobis!
From men that say wide earth contains
No truth but creeps through priestly veins,
Good saint, deliver us!
Such eager fancies vain
Shape forth the rival Churches;
And each man's fuming brain
God's holy light besmirches;
And thus they all conspire
The primal truth to smother,
And think they praise their Sire
By hating well their brother.
Such wrangling when I see
Such storms of godly rancour,
To Heathendom I flee
To cast a peaceful anchor,
And thus I pray:
O Sancte Socrates, ora pro nobis!
Let love and faith and joy increase,
And reason rule and wrangling cease,
Good saint, we pray thee!
Shape forth the rival Churches;
And each man's fuming brain
God's holy light besmirches;
101
The primal truth to smother,
And think they praise their Sire
By hating well their brother.
Such wrangling when I see
Such storms of godly rancour,
To Heathendom I flee
To cast a peaceful anchor,
And thus I pray:
O Sancte Socrates, ora pro nobis!
Let love and faith and joy increase,
And reason rule and wrangling cease,
Good saint, we pray thee!
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