Zinzendorff and Other Poems/Sale of Ardent Spirits by Christians
SALE OF ARDENT SPIRITS BY CHRISTIANS.
There rose a cry of violence and pain,
And of the earth I ask’d—if nought remained
Amid her moral lazar-house, to cleanse
This vital taint, and make the leprous whole?
—"Yea, she replied, The followers of Christ!—
They are the purifying principle,
The salt of earth."
Then I beheld a flood
Of dark corruption.—Far and wide it spread,—
And many sported on its fatal brink,
Who never more to health and life return'd;
For he who plung'd, did strait forget his God,
And curse himself, and die. Amaz'd I marked
Some, who profess'd Christ s name, with eager toil
Forming new channels for that baleful tide,
As if to irrigate the scorching land
With Etna's lava. Not of the dire fount
They drank themselves,—nor to their offspring gave,—
The pestilential draught;—they only prest
Its venom to their weaker neighbor's lip
Till the red plague-spot rankled in his soul.—
Still, from their household altars, morn and even,
Duly arose the prayer that God would change
The sinner s heart,—and turn those erring feet
Whose steps take hold on hell.
I saw the shroud
Of pagan darkness, from the breast of earth
Begin to melt away.
"Who holds the lamp,
Thus to illume thy midnight?"—and again
She answered, "Christians!—for their master saith
That like a city set upon a hill,
Their light may not be hid."
I look'd,—and lo!
With warm, untiring zeal, they spread the wing
Of strong benevolence, to bear the gift
Of mercy to the heathen,—and to fill
The idol-temples with Jehovah's praise.
Yet some, while mov'd with purpose so sublime,
Expansive and seraphic,—strangely sold
A poison to their brother,—though it sent
Despair's cold shuddering through the partner's heart
Who wak'd and wept for him,—and on his babes
Entail'd worse woes than orphanage.
Oh Thou!
Who giv'st us skill to read thy holy word,
Grant us a heart to understand and feel
That wealth obtain'd without the fear of God
Is but an ill inheritance, and he
Who hasteth to be rich, doth oft times fall
'Mid hurtful snares, that drown the priceless soul
In dark perdition. Break the dangerous chain
Of Mammon from our spirit, that in love
To all mankind, as well as love to Thee,
With hands outstretch'd to pluck our brother's feet
From the destroyer's net, and with the prayer,
The never-ceasing prayer of penitence
For our own errors, we may safely pass
On through this evil world, to thy right hand.