The silent scorn of the sightless! The callous ear of the deaf! The wrath of might to the mightless! The shroud, and the mourning sheaf! Light--to behold their squalor! Breath--to draw in life's pain! Voices to plead and call for Heaven's help!--hearts to bleed--in vain! * * * * * What have you done, O Church, That the weary should bless your name? Should come with faith's holy torch To light up your altar'd fane? Why should they kiss the folds Of the garment of your High Priest? Or bow to the chalice that holds The wine of your Sacred Feast? Have you blown out the breath of their sighs? Have you strengthened the weak, the ill? Have you wiped the dark tears from their eyes, And bade their sobbings be still? Have you touched, have you known, have you felt, Have you bent and softly smiled In the face of the woman, who dwelt In lewdness--to feed her child? Have you heard the cry in the night Going up from the outraged heart, Masked from the social sight By the cloak that but angered the smart? Have you heard the children's moan, By the light of the skies denied? Answer, O Walls of Stone, In the name of your Crucified! * * * * * Out of the clay of their heart-break, From the red dew of its sod, You have mortar'd your brick, for Christ's sake, And reared a palace to God! Your painters have dipped their brushes In the tears and the blood of the race, Whom, LIVING, your dark frown crushes-- And limned--a DEAD Savior's face! You have seized, in the name of God, the Child's crust from famine's dole; You have taken the price of its body And sung a mass for its soul! You have smiled on the man, who, deceiving, Paid exemption to ease your wrath! You have cursed the poor fool who believed him, Though her body lay prone in your path! You have laid the seal on the lip! You have bid us to be content! To bow 'neath our master's whip, And give thanks for the scourge--"heav'n sent." These, O Church, are your thanks; These are the fruits without flaw, That flow from the chosen ranks Who keep in your perfect law; Doors hard-locked on the homeless! Stained glass windows for bread! On the living, the law of dumbness, And the law of need, for--the _dead_! Better the dead, who, not needing, Go down to the vaults of the Earth, Than the living whose hearts lie bleeding, Crushed by you at their very birth. * * * * * What have you done, O State, That the toilers should shout your ways; Should light up the fires of their hate If a "traitor" should dare dispraise?