Bowing, where you proudly stand, to pray!
Can you coldly look upon their faces,
Pale, sad faces, seamed with frequent tears;
See their hands uplifted in their places—
Hands that toiled for all your boyhood's years?
Can you see your wives and daughters pleading
In the dust you spurn beneath your feet,
Baring hearts for years in secret bleeding,
To the scoffs and jestings of the street?
Can you hear, and yet not heed the crying