And the word of hope that raises him who faints, John Brown;
And I hate the constant whine
Of the foolish who repine,
And turn their good to evil by complaints, John Brown;
But even when I hate,
If I seek my garden gate,
And survey the world around me and above, John Brown;
The hatred flies my mind,
And I sigh for humankind,
And excuse the faults of those I cannot love, John Brown.