 | The Burdens of Belief and Other Poems |  |
112
ISLAM
All plants not planted by My Father's hands,—Each one of these shall yet be rooted out.
How long, O Lord? When shall we hear the shout
Of that great victory, and ransomed lands
Be open to Thy light—when see the rout,
In the long sun of that triumphant day,
Of evil legions, as they swarm away
From this fair earth, that would be fair indeed,
But for the noisome growths of evil seed
That choke its furrows? The Arabian sands
Have sent their raging Prophet forth, and hurled
His bolts of ravage over half the world.
He holds Thy Land. He treads the sacred street
That heard the echoes of Thy blessèd feet.
May, 1892.
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