A Contrast

Thy love thou sendest oft to me,

  And still as oft I thrust it back;

Thy messengers I could not see

  In those who everything did lack,

  The poor, the outcast and the black.

Pride held his hand before mine eyes,

  The world with flattery stuffed mine ears;

I looked to see a monarch's guise,

  Nor dreamed thy love would knock for years,

  Poor, naked, fettered, full of tears.

Yet, when I sent my love to thee,

  Thou with a smile didst take it in,

And entertain'dst it royally,

  Though grimed with earth, with hunger thin,

  And leprous with the taint of sin.

Now every day thy love I meet,

  As o'er the earth it wanders wide,

With weary step and bleeding feet,

  Still knocking at the heart of pride

  And offering grace, though still denied.