Not like the nerveless fatalist, content to do and die.
Our faith springs like the eagle’s, who soars to meet the sun,
And cries exulting unto thee, “O Lord, Thy will be done.”
When tyrant feet are trampling upon the common weal,
Thou dost not bid us bend and writhe beneath the iron heel.
In thy name we assert our right by sword or tongue or pen,
And even the headsman’s ax may flash thy message unto men.
Thy will! It bids the weak be strong; it bids the strong be just;
No lips to fawn, no hand to beg, no brow to seek the dust.
Whenever man oppresses men beneath the liberal sun