"But listen now: These years I lived perturbed, Lest this life which I grew into would mould Young men and ministers, lead them astray To public life, sensation, lecture platforms, Prosperity, away from Christ-like service, Obscure and gentle. To those souls I owe My heart's confession: I have loved my books More than the poor, position more than service, Office and honor over love of men; Lived thus when all my strength belonged to thought, To work for schools, the sick, the poor, the friendless, To boys and girls with hungry minds. My friends, Here I abase my soul before God's throne, And ask forgiveness for the pious zeal With which I smote the soul of Alma Bell, And smudged the robe of Elenor Murray. God, Thou, who has taken Elenor Murray home, After great service in the war, O grant Thy servant yet to kneel before the soul Of Elenor Murray. For who am I to judge? What was I then to judge? who coveted honors, When solitude, where I might dwell apart, And listen to the voice of God was mine, By calling and for seeking. I have broken The oath I took to take no purse or scrip. I have loved money, even while I knew No servant of Christ can work for Christ and strive For money. And if anywhere there be A noble boy who would become a minister, Who has heard me, or read my books, and grown Thereby to cherish secular ideas Of Christ's work in the world, to him I say: Repent the thought, reject me; there are men And women missionaries, here, abroad, And nameless workers in poor settlements Whose latchets to stoop down and to unloose I am unworthy." "Gift of life too short! O, beautiful gift of God, too brief at best, For all a man can do, how have I wasted This precious gift! How wasted it in pride, In seeking out the powerful, the great, The hands with honors, gold to give--when nothing Is profitable to a servant of the Christ Except to shepherd Christ's poor. O, young men, Interpret not your ministry in terms Of intellect alone, forefront the heart, That at the end of life you may look up And say to God: Behind these are the sheep Thou gavest me, and not a one is lost." "As to my enemies, for enemies A clergyman must have whose fault is mine, Plato would have us harden hearts to sorrow. And Zeno roofs of slate for souls to slide The storm of evil--Christ in sorrow did For evil good. For me, my prayer is this, My faith as well, that I may be perfected Through suffering." That ended the confession. Then "Love Divine, All Love Excelling" sounded. The congregation rose, and some went up To take the pastor's hand, but others left To think the matter over.