Faith

There is no faith; the mountain stands within Still unrebuked, its summit reaches heaven; And every action adds its load of sin, For every action wants the little leaven; There is no prayer; it is but empty sound, That stirs with frequent breath the yielding air, With every pulse they are more strongly bound, Who make the blood of goats the voice of prayer; Oh heal them, heal them, Father, with thy word,— Their sins cry out to thee from every side; From son and sire, from slave and master heard, Their voices fill the desert country wide; And bid thee hasten to relieve and save, By him who rose triumphant o'er the grave.