 | Three Hundred Sonnets |  |
269
A PLEA FOR SUCH.
Not blest? not saved? Who dares to doubt all wellWith holy Innocence, a Christian seed?
Presumptuous priest,—I scorn thy bigot creed,
And tell thee,—truer than the Fathers tell,—
That babes unborn are Jesu's lambs indeed!
Thou teachest, that, as if by magic force,
A rite, a formula, redeems from hell,—
A drop of water saving as of course,—
And this unspilt, no Grace!—O heathen spell,
Rome's heresy!—there is a surer source
Of baptism for the soul than thou canst give,
And Christian parents dip their children there
Unborn, or born, to die, as well as live,
In Heaven's own font of faith and hope and pray'r.
| Three Hundred Sonnets | |