The Worshippers

Wo Sing was just a heathen blind, A dull insensate clod, Yet somehow to his darkened mind, There came a thought of God. He shaped an idol out of clay, And to it bowed his knee; No one had taught him how to pray, Alas, the poor Chinee!

An artist took his brush and paint, And on his canvas board, He wrought a picture of a saint, And called it Christ the Lord; With patient hand, and wondrous skill, Retouched that kindly face, But thought it ever lacking still, In majesty and grace.

A preacher in his pulpit stood, (His words the people trust,) His message was that God is good, And knows mankind is dust. He drew a picture of a Lord, Omniscient, pure and kind, His thoughts, His purposes, His word, Too high for human mind.

The Kaiser has conceived a god, To rule o'er sea and land, With strong, remorseless, iron rod, In Hohenzollern hand; A god who honors lies and fraud, And mean hypocrisy, A boastful, bloody, brutal god, The god of Germany.

And thus we all our idols make, As our conception is, And pray our Father, but to take, Our helpless hands in His; To give us each a ray of hope, To each a message bring, Each king and kaiser, priest and pope, Each humble poor Wo Sing.