The globe itself a speck—an atom; thou—
Oh! child of dust, shall pride exalt thee now?
In one thing only thou mayst glory still,
And let exulting joy thy bosom fill;
Glory in this,—and what is all beside,
That for this worm, this atom,—Jesus died.
Does conscious genius fire thy haughty mind,
Genius that raises man above his kind,—
The lofty soul that soars on wing of fire,
While crowds at distance marvel and admire?