O God, whose countenance has graced the Coin,
yet, bankrupt, our dull worship lies a-bed;
Thy Name our voices pledge, but lives purloin;
our loyalty and honor both have fled.
O Judge o’er sapphire Sky and em’rald Earth,
thy children, steeped in controversy’s lust,
abort the hope that comes of such high birth;
our diadems of virtue stain with rust.
How shall we overcome the pharisee
who swears by you in court, yet lives as dumb
to grace; whose vice is at its apogee?
How can we rise, thus deafened by this thrum?
Hear, Citizen of Heav’n: whose heart is best
will rule the Self; and so shall Man be blessed.


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