Right down deep in your friendly heart is found the truth of Heaven
Each of us prisoners here confined for truth will e'er contend;
Go, search each heart! and then report if truth we'll not defend.
Onward, onward, upward, upward may your labors ever roll;
Reach out for poor fallen sinner, and your work we'll all extol:
Yet 'tis not too late to labor—God will answer, "Aye, extol!"
"Fair-child" of Heaven's august plan, how comest thou to wed yourself to Man?
A name is nothing but to designate, but, Oh—how often it does consecrate
In language pure and clear as diamond scale, while thou, Fair-child, we, every one, do hail!
Real sympathy is not so strong a band as binds fair woman unto haughty man!