Gladden was often the center of a storm of criticism on the part of those who charged him with liberalism. His beautiful hymn, written in 1879, seems to be in part an answer to his critics. It originally consisted of three stanzas of eight lines each. The second stanza, which was omitted when the poem was first published as a hymn, indicates how keenly Gladden felt the condemnation of his opponents: O Master, let me walk with Thee Before the taunting Pharisee; Help me to bear the sting of spite, The hate of men who hide Thy light, The sore distrust of souls sincere Who cannot read Thy judgments clear, The dulness of the multitude, Who dimly guess that Thou art good. Dr. Gladden always insisted that he was nothing but a preacher, and he gloried in his high calling. In spite of busy pastorates, however, he always found time to give expression to his literary talent. At one time he was a member of the editorial staff of the New York Independent. Later he was an editor of the "Sunday Afternoon," a weekly magazine. It was in this magazine that "O Master, let me walk with Thee" was first published. The writer had no idea of composing a hymn when it was written, and no one was more surprised than he at its popularity. He himself agreed that the second stanza quoted above was not suitable for hymn purposes. Whatever judgment may be passed on Dr. Gladden's liberalistic views, it will be agreed that he looked upon Christianity as an intensely practical thing; and, if he underestimated the value of Christian dogma, it was because he emphasized so strongly the necessity of Christian life and practice. He was always buoyed up by a hopeful spirit, and he believed implicitly that the Kingdom of Light was gradually overcoming the forces of evil. In one of his last sermons, he said: "I have never doubted that the Kingdom I have always prayed for is coming; that the gospel I have preached is true. I believe ... that the nation is being saved." Something of his optimism may be seen reflected in the words of his hymn. A Hymn of the City Where cross the crowded ways of life, Where sound the cries of race and clan, Above the noise of selfish strife, We hear Thy voice, O Son of man! In haunts of wretchedness and need, On shadowed thresholds dark with fears, From paths where hide the lures of greed, We catch the vision of Thy tears. From tender childhood's helplessness, From woman's grief, man's burdened toil, From famished souls, from sorrow's stress, Thy heart has never known recoil. The cup of water given for Thee Still holds the freshness of Thy grace; Yet long these multitudes to see The sweet compassion of Thy face. O Master, from the mountain-side, Make haste to heal these hearts of pain, Among these restless throngs abide, O tread the city's streets again,