Is there, in you or me,
Seed of that poison-tree
Which, in its bitter fruiting, bore
Such vintage sore
Of red calamity—
Black wine of horror and of Death,
And soul-catastrophe?
Search well and see!

Yea—search and see!
And, if there be—
Tear up its roots with zealous care,
With deep soul-probing and with prayer,
Lest, in the coming years,
Again it bear
This same dread fruit of blood and tears,
And ruth beyond compare.

Each soul that strips it of one evil thing
Lifts all the world towards God's good purposing.