And didst Thou love the race that loved not Thee?
And didst Thou take to Hea­ven a hu­man brow?
Dost plead with man’s voice by the mar­vel­ous sea?
Art Thou his kins­man now?

O God, O kins­man loved, but not enough,
O Man, with eyes ma­jes­tic af­ter death,
Whose feet have toiled along our path­ways rough,
Whose lips drawn hu­man breath!

By that one like­ness which is ours and Thine,
By that one na­ture which doth hold us kin,
By that high Hea­ven where, sin­less, Thou dost shine
To draw us sin­ners in.

By Thy last si­lence in the judg­ment hall,
By long fore­know­ledge of the dead­ly tree,
By dark­ness, by the worm­wood and the gall,
I pray Thee vi­sit me.

Come, lest this heart should, cold and cast away,
Die ere the guest adored she en­ter­tain—
Lest eyes which ne­ver saw Thine earth­ly day
Should miss Thy heav’n­ly reign.