Lo, thy blood-blackened altars; lo,
The lips of priests that pray and feed,
While their own hell’s worm curls and licks
The poison of the crucifix.
Thou bad’st the children come to thee,—
What children now but curses come,
What manhood in that God can be
Who sees their worship and is dumb?—
No soul that lived, loved, wrought, and died