Our City (The Disciple)

(The Saviour of the World, Vol VI Book IV Poem LXIII)

Fair city of our love,

Thy very streets are dear,

Thy pavements and thy pleasaunces

Where rich and poor appear!

Thy civic palaces,

Thy marts where merchants be;

Thy courts where Justice doth preside,

Of swift access, and free!

Thy stately halls, and fair,

Where pictures on the walls

Let forth the spirit of a man

To the land his soul enthrals!

The Churches, where thy God

Is sought by pious souls;

The Sabbath chime—all turbulence

And traffic’s tide controls!

A heritage have I,

My heart expands at sight

Of the good things prepared in thee

For city folks’ delight!

Well have our fathers done

To build thee graciously,

A pleasant place beneath the sun

Men come from far to see;

To make good laws and wise

All men to keep secure;

And, pitiful, build quiet aisles

To shelter sick and poor!

Then, has the whole been done?

Have we no part to fill,

But sit and take at ease the good

Left by our fathers’ will?

If Christ in lowly state

Should walk thy streets to-day,

Would He not pause to contemplate

The grace thy stones display?

Would not our fathers’ work

Be dear in His eyes, too,

Who watched them build and blessed their aims

With strength to carry through?

Our slums and hidden dens,

What would He say of these?

What are our dealings with His poor,

With sickness, want, disease?

Our city’s luxury,

Will the just Judge pass by?

The vice that crawls in secret ways,

How shews it ’neath His eye?

God save us from the doom,

Jerusalem, passed on thee!

Now, let us pray, “Thy kingdom come!”

And labour that it be!

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