John Brown

Writ in between the lines of his life-deed We trace the sacred service of a heart Answering the Divine command, in every part Bearing on human weal: His love did feed The loveless; and his gentle hands did lead The blind, and lift the weak, and balm the smart Of other wounds than rankled at the dart In his own breast, that gloried thus to bleed. He served the lowliest first--nay, them alone-- The most despised that e'er wreaked vain breath In cries of suppliance in the reign whereat Red Guilt sate squat upon her spattered throne.-- For these doomed there it was he went to death. God! how the merest man loves one like that!