“But the Greatest of These is Charity”

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White faces turn to us again
 Sad eyes from out their veils of clay:
Strength stricken low, and hopeless pain,
 Haunt us to-day.
Their wild eyes burn across our sleep:
 They haunt us in the busy throng
With silent eloquence, more deep
 Than word or song.

Give: we are pawns upon the board;
 We see not how Fate’s dice are thrown.
The life swung by a trembling cord
 Might be your own.

Give: ’twill be meted back to thee
 When Death who waits, soe’er we roam,
Withdraws the veil that we may see
 The Lights of Home.

© George Essex Evans