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Poem by Jones Very
There is no worship now,—the idol stands Within the spirit's holy resting place! Millions before it bend with upraised hands, And with their gifts God's purer shrine disgrace; The prophet walks unhonored mid the crowd That to the idol's temple daily throng; His voice unheard above their voices loud, His strength too feeble 'gainst the torrent strong; But there are bounds that ocean's rage can stay When wave on wave leaps madly to the shore: And soon-the prophet's word shall men obey, And hushed to peace the billows cease to roar; For he who spoke—and warring winds kept peace, Commands again—and man's wild passions cease.
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