Tiens Ta Foi.
Though thorny the pathway 'neath our feet,
Though nothing in life be left that's sweet;
Though friends prove faithless in trial's hours
And love a curst and poisonous flower;
Though Belial stalk in priestly gown
And virtue's reward is fortune's frown;
Though true hearts bleed and the coward slave
Tramples in dust the fallen brave;
Think not the unworthy acts of men
Will 'scape the recording angel's pen;
The sword of God, in ruin and wraith,
Will surely fall! Oh, cling to thy faith!
Though worldly wise say it cannot be
That there's a heaven for thee and me;
Though logic's banner they have unfurled
And by its cold light now view the world,
Calling High God to the courts of man
To be judged by human reason's span,
And failing to grasp the power divine
Will blindly assert: "It doth not shine";
Thy mother was wiser far than they
In twilight hour when she knelt to pray,
A radiant light on her sweet face
From Eternal God's high dwelling-place.
Lo here! lo here th' false prophets cry,
Pointing out new paths unto the sky,
Far pleasanter than our fathers trod
With bleeding feet in the fear of God;
While Atheists laugh our faith to scorn,
And say that no man of woman born
Ever pierced the evil or caught a gleam
Of the mystic land beyond life's stream;
That our fondest hopes, our prayers and sighs
For life eternal beyond the skies,
Are superstitions conceived in fear
And cherished by priest and lying seer.
The martyr's blood, the penitent's tears,
The inspired word of Judea's seers,
The name of God on the sacred mount,
The river that poured from rocky fount
In the burning sands beneath the rod,
Obedient to the will of God;
The prayers and sighs in Gethsemane,
The red tide gushing on Calvary,
The radiant smile when life is done
Of saint that tells that heaven is won—
Shall we say 'tis all a priestly lie
And like soulless beasts lie down to die?
Ah, better 'twould be to ride in mail
A weary quest for the Holy Grail;
Wield Saxon steel 'gainst Saracen sword
Around the sepulcher of our Lord;
See Cross and Crescent and mailed hand
All plashed with blood in that sacred land,
Than doubt that heaven e'er shed its light
Deep into this world's long troublous night;
That God hears our prayers, knows all our pains,
That earthly sorrows are heavenly gains,
That the grave's the gate to lasting life,
Unsullied by sorrow, pain and strife.
Oh, better worship at pagan shrine;
Or, prophet of Islam, e'en at thine;
To seek Nirvana in Buddhist lore,
Or pray to Isis on Afric's shore;
Better the dark, mysterious rites
Of Ceres on Elusian heights;
Better the Gueber's fierce God of fire—
Oh, better to wake the trembling lyre
To any Savior than to be hurled
Godless and hopeless out of the world;
To madly plunge in death's dark river,
Lost to life and heaven forever.
In dark seas where the whirlpool rages
Stands the eternal Rock of Ages;
Amid dangers dire, 'mid wreck and wraith
God plants the banner of Christian faith.
Unworthy the sailor whose heart doth fail
When the God of storms rides on the gale;
Coward the soldier who shuns the grave,
And thrice accursed the trembling slave
Who in life's battles, darkest hour
Renounces God and denies His power.
Then Tiens ta Foi through the bitter strife!
O cling to the cross—through death to life!