  It matters not what be our lot Upon this mundane sphere, In spite of fears and burning tears While we shall linger here, We must depend on foe or friend For many things we need To give the soul that full control Which makes it strong indeed. For noble end, make him a friend Who can reciprocate, A kindly act, not to it tacked The proof of reprobate. God only knows whom we may choose And safely trust as brother, The seeming saint may have a taint That proves him quite another. In human dust we scarcely trust The egotistic pious, Who thinks that he from sin is free— Not subject to its bias; A holy man does all he can For God and human kind; He meekly lives, but counsel gives In language pure, refined. |
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