Yet hast not gather’d fruit,—save rankling thorns,
Or Sodom’s bitter apples,—hast thou read
Heaven’s promise to the seeker? Thou may’st bring
Those o’er whose cradle thou didst watch with pride,
And lay them at thy Savior’s feet, for lo!
His shadow falling on the wayward soul,
May give it holy health. And when thou kneel’st
Low at the pavement of sweet Mercy’s gate,
Beseeching for thine erring ones, unfold
The passport of the King,—’Ask, and receive!