POETRY.
WHY I BELIEVE.
" Das Blend der Mensolun in to gross. Man mite slashes."
WEIRNESS makes one orthodox, Weakness and the nasty knocks Dealt us, and the staggering shocks, When our road the Devil blocks. When black hands of demons seize us, We are forced to cry to Jesus, Yes, to Him, to Riau, none other, Who sticks closer than a brother; Whose Word bade the tempest cease, Have the demon-tortured peace,
Whose Name through the night of war, Shines an unextinguished star. When the wise man of the world Mocks us with a proud lip curled, " What kind of hopeless fools are yon, Making a God of a long-dead Jew?" We reply, " Great Intellect!
Wait until your nerves are wrecked, Till the furnace-blast of pain Shrivels fibres in your brain, Till there dogs your footsteps close, Madness, murderous, morose.
Then you must, like us you scorn, Cling to Jesus, or be torn By the Wild Beast's bloody claw
Into morsels for his maw." C. FIELD.
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