  Pagan, Papist, Protestant! What is that to thee or me? Make not Heaven’s mercy scant With thy pampered bigotry. Who made thee the judge to be Of thy brother’s destiny? Deem not that thy shibboleth Holds the keys of life and death. Ah, that secret, sullen sign! Call it not decree divine; For a letter, more, or less, Measures not God’s tenderness. “Other sheep I have,” said One Who was more than Mary’s son;— Eyes as blind as thine shall see His amazing charity. What is creed but craft and cant? God will surely know His own:— Pagan, Papist, Protestant.
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