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73

Worship

There is no worship now—the idol stands
Within the spirit's holy resting place;
Millions before it bend with upraised hands,
And with their gifts God's purer shrine disgrace;
The prophet walks unhonored mid the crowd
That to the idol's temple daily throng;
His voice unheard above their voices loud,
His strength too feeble 'gainst the torrent strong;
But there are bounds that ocean's rage can stay
When wave on wave rush madly to the shore;
And soon the prophet's word shall men obey,
And hushed to peace the billows cease to roar;
For he who spoke—and warring winds keep peace,
Commands again—and man's wild passions cease.
Poem No. 630; c. 15 December 1838