But the law, that was victor of old with its heel on the neck of the brute,
Still tramples our hearts in the darkness, still grinds down our face in the dust;
We are sown in corruption and anguish—whose fingers will gather the fruit?
Our life is but lent for a season—for whom do we hold it in trust?
In the vault of the sky overhead, in the gulfs that lie under our feet,
The wheels of the universe turn, and the laws of the universe blend;
The pulse of our life is in tune with the rhythm of forces that beat
In the surf of the furthest star's sea, and are spent and regathered to spend.
Yet we trust in the will of the Being whose fingers have spangled the night
With the dust of a myriad worlds, and who speaks in the thunders of space;