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!