"A motley host, the Lord's debris, Faith's odds and ends together; Well might I shrink from guests with lungs Tough as their breeches leather "If, when the hangman at their heels Came, rope in hand to catch them, I took the hunted outcasts in, I never sent to fetch them. "I fed, but spared them not a whit; I gave to all who walked in, Not clams and succotash alone, But stronger meat of doctrine. "I proved the prophets false, I pricked The bubble of perfection, And clapped upon their inner light The snuffers of election. "And looking backward on my times, This credit I am taking; I kept each sectary's dish apart, No spiritual chowder making. "Where now the blending signs of sect Would puzzle their assorter, The dry-shod Quaker kept the land, The Baptist held the water. "A common coat now serves for both, The hat's no more a fixture; And which was wet and which was dry, Who knows in such a mixture? "Well! He who fashioned Peter's dream To bless them all is able; And bird and beast and creeping thing Make clean upon His table! "I walked by my own light; but when The ways of faith divided, Was I to force unwilling feet To tread the path that I did? "I touched the garment-hem of truth, Yet saw not all its splendor; I knew enough of doubt to feel For every conscience tender. "God left men free of choice, as when His Eden-trees were planted; Because they chose amiss, should I Deny the gift He granted? "So, with a common sense of need, Our common weakness feeling, I left them with myself to God And His all-gracious dealing! "I kept His plan whose rain and sun To tare and wheat are given; And if the ways to hell were free, I left then free to heaven!" Take heart with us, O man of old, Soul-freedom's brave confessor, So love of God and man wax strong, Let sect and creed be lesser. The jarring discords of thy day In ours one hymn are swelling; The wandering feet, the severed paths, All seek our Father's dwelling. And slowly learns the world the truth That makes us all thy debtor,-- That holy life is more than rite, And spirit more than letter; That they who differ pole-wide serve Perchance the common Master, And other sheep He hath than they Who graze one narrow pasture! For truth's worst foe is he who claims To act as God's avenger, And deems, beyond his sentry-beat, The crystal walls in danger! Who sets for heresy his traps Of verbal quirk and quibble, And weeds the garden of the Lord With Satan's borrowed dibble. To-day our hearts like organ keys One Master's touch are feeling; The branches of a common Vine Have only leaves of healing.