Repentance
Our Father, God! behold us raise
Our hopes, our thoughts, our hearts, to thee;
Yet not to lift the hymn of praise,
But humbly bow the suppliant knee.
For we have sinn'd before thy face,
Have seen unmoved our brothers’ woe,
Though on his cheeks hot tear-drops trace
Deep furrows in their burning flow.
We knew that on his limbs were bound
The fetters man should never wear;
We knew that darkness hemm'd him round,
And grief, and anguish, and despair.
We knew—but in our selfish hearts,
There waked no throb of answering pain;
Yet, now, at last, the tear-drop starts,
We weep the oppress'd one's galling chain.
We weep, repenting of the pride
That chill'd our narrow souls so long;
Oh, Father! may that suppliant tide
Efface our deep and cruel wrong.
poem by Elizabeth Margaret Chandler from Poetical Works (1836)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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