 | Women must weep |  |
GOD'S GIRLS.
There are thousands and thousands, that creep
Through the by-ways and alleys of life;
There are thousands and thousands that weep,
Trodden down in the stress of the strife;
There are women who children are yet,
In the midst of the masking and sham,
Whom the world has conspired to forget,
And the law to dishonour and damn.
By the river of tears they are sad,
And they sob, as it hurries and whirls—
“God is good to the rich and the bad,
But He cares not a bit for the girls.”
Through the by-ways and alleys of life;
There are thousands and thousands that weep,
Trodden down in the stress of the strife;
There are women who children are yet,
In the midst of the masking and sham,
Whom the world has conspired to forget,
And the law to dishonour and damn.
By the river of tears they are sad,
And they sob, as it hurries and whirls—
“God is good to the rich and the bad,
But He cares not a bit for the girls.”
There are captives in fetters, who stare
Through the bars of the dungeon of woe—
Who in pain and in penury fare,
As if each were accurst and a foe;
There are captives, who hopelessly beat
On the walls that to shame shut them in—
Who were dupes of the coward and cheat,
Though they bear all the sorrow of sin.
And, oh, hark at the cry of their wrong
As the current to misery swirls—
“We have waited and waited so long,
But God cares not a bit for the girls.”
Through the bars of the dungeon of woe—
Who in pain and in penury fare,
As if each were accurst and a foe;
There are captives, who hopelessly beat
On the walls that to shame shut them in—
Who were dupes of the coward and cheat,
Though they bear all the sorrow of sin.
And, oh, hark at the cry of their wrong
As the current to misery swirls—
“We have waited and waited so long,
But God cares not a bit for the girls.”
102
There are sufferers basely kept down,
In a bondage far worse than the grave,
By false virtue's superior frown,
By the hands that were fashion'd to save;
They are helpless and troubled and weak,
In the cold and the shadow they lie;
No one answers or heeds if they speak—
They can only fall lower and die.
Their own shrouds with their fingers they stitch,
As they wail through the storm-cloud that curls—
“God is good to the vile who are rich,
But He cares not a bit for the girls.”
In a bondage far worse than the grave,
By false virtue's superior frown,
By the hands that were fashion'd to save;
They are helpless and troubled and weak,
In the cold and the shadow they lie;
No one answers or heeds if they speak—
They can only fall lower and die.
Their own shrouds with their fingers they stitch,
As they wail through the storm-cloud that curls—
“God is good to the vile who are rich,
But He cares not a bit for the girls.”
There are sisters with hearts like our own,
Whom the Pharisees hate and despise,
Into corners of infamy thrown,
Who are fallen, and fain would arise.
They have purposes noble and fair,
And they long once again to be free;
But they sicken and droop with despair,
When their brothers forsake them and flee.
They were caught by the glittering bait,
And they moan, ere the thunderbolt hurls—
“We have waited so long, and still wait,
But God cares not a bit for the girls.”
Whom the Pharisees hate and despise,
Into corners of infamy thrown,
Who are fallen, and fain would arise.
They have purposes noble and fair,
And they long once again to be free;
But they sicken and droop with despair,
When their brothers forsake them and flee.
They were caught by the glittering bait,
And they moan, ere the thunderbolt hurls—
“We have waited so long, and still wait,
But God cares not a bit for the girls.”
There are daughters who pine for the arms
Which should shelter and comfort and bless,
Tost about on the surges of harms,
When they want but a mother's caress;
They are tender, and yet would be true,
If some hand for their rescue were seen—
If the skies gave a promise of blue,
And the earth show'd a glimmer of green.
And they mourn for the brightness they had,
When the summer abode in their curls—
“God is good to the rich and the bad,
But Hecares not a bit for the girls.”
Which should shelter and comfort and bless,
Tost about on the surges of harms,
When they want but a mother's caress;
They are tender, and yet would be true,
If some hand for their rescue were seen—
If the skies gave a promise of blue,
And the earth show'd a glimmer of green.
And they mourn for the brightness they had,
When the summer abode in their curls—
“God is good to the rich and the bad,
But Hecares not a bit for the girls.”
103
There are souls to be saved or be lost,
That go wandering lone in the night,
Under scathing of scorn and its frost,
And the victims of lust, with its blight;
They are restless and wretched and faint,
From desire no delight ever stills—
With big eyes, which, ablaze in their paint,
Are all wild with the waiting that kills.
Oh, their sigh with its heart-broken sob,
Like a straw on the torrent that twirls—
“We have wearied and wearied so long,
But God cares not a bit for the girls.”
That go wandering lone in the night,
Under scathing of scorn and its frost,
And the victims of lust, with its blight;
They are restless and wretched and faint,
From desire no delight ever stills—
With big eyes, which, ablaze in their paint,
Are all wild with the waiting that kills.
Oh, their sigh with its heart-broken sob,
Like a straw on the torrent that twirls—
“We have wearied and wearied so long,
But God cares not a bit for the girls.”
Does He care not, who lets His love shine,
The great sun that for ages has stood,
In its human compassion Divine,
On the evil no less than the good?
Does He care not, when nothing can tire,
No ingratitude turn Him to rest—
When He forms out of filthiest mire,
The rare jewels He wears on His breast?
Yes, He cares for the mournful and mad,
For the outcast disown'd by the churls,
And He suffers the rich and the bad,
But as Father He cares for His girls.
The great sun that for ages has stood,
In its human compassion Divine,
On the evil no less than the good?
Does He care not, when nothing can tire,
No ingratitude turn Him to rest—
When He forms out of filthiest mire,
The rare jewels He wears on His breast?
Yes, He cares for the mournful and mad,
For the outcast disown'd by the churls,
And He suffers the rich and the bad,
But as Father He cares for His girls.
It is we who care not for our kin,
Who are slothful and faithless and slack,
Who by petty self-seeking and sin
The sweet boon of Redemption hold back;
It is we who are callous and hard,
To the pangs of unsyllabled fear,
Who with pride and suspicion retard
The outpouring of mercy so near.
Like a watchman God stands at His gates,
Which are fired with the glory of pearls,
He has waited so long, and still waits,
Because nobody cares for His girls.
Who are slothful and faithless and slack,
Who by petty self-seeking and sin
The sweet boon of Redemption hold back;
It is we who are callous and hard,
To the pangs of unsyllabled fear,
Who with pride and suspicion retard
The outpouring of mercy so near.
Like a watchman God stands at His gates,
Which are fired with the glory of pearls,
He has waited so long, and still waits,
Because nobody cares for His girls.
104
But the dawn is approaching, and soon
Will the sword of His judgment be bare,
And in light not of sun or of moon
He will prove all His pitiful care;
While the features, so faded and worn,
Shall grow beautiful then with the grace
Of a holier, heavenly morn,
Which is only the Saviour's face.
They shall gather fresh life and be glad,
When the cloud its dark canopy furls,
At the doom of the rich and the bad,
And when every one cares for the girls
Will the sword of His judgment be bare,
And in light not of sun or of moon
He will prove all His pitiful care;
While the features, so faded and worn,
Shall grow beautiful then with the grace
Of a holier, heavenly morn,
Which is only the Saviour's face.
They shall gather fresh life and be glad,
When the cloud its dark canopy furls,
At the doom of the rich and the bad,
And when every one cares for the girls
| Women must weep | |