 | Freedom's Offering, |  |
34
A Prayer.
'Tis not in temples Lord,Built of clay, and by hands
Of clay; That I would worship.
No! Let the broad blue vaulted
Sky, pillar'd by the mountain
Peakes, my temple form;
And thine eternal truth,
Mine altar be.
'Tis not by narrow creeds,
Breathing damnation fierce,
And deep, would I be bound;
The expanded soul, scorns
To cramp within such
Ciscumscription—it takes
In the vast brotherhood
Of man, and links the tropics
With the frigid poles,
In love and peace.
| Freedom's Offering, | |