While we force our brother mortals into squalor, need, and crime;
Wicked we should pose as Christians singing songs to God on high,
Heedless of his tortured creatures who in pauper prisons lie.
Christless is the crime of turning creed-stopped ears to teardrops shed
By the women whom oppression robs of virtue for their bread.
Satan’s blush would mantle crimson could he see the stunted child
Slaving in our marts and markets, helpless, hopeless, and reviled—
See its pallid face uplifted from the whirling factory wheels,
Tear-stained with the grief and anguish of a baby brain that reels,
Tortured in life’s budding springtime, toiling on with stifled cries,