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BROTHERHOOD

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Pacific Press Publishing Company · Oakland, California · Jan 29, 1902

FromSigns of the Times, Vol. 28, No. 5.

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BROTHERHOOD

By T. R. Williamson

THE Arabs have a phrase which well expresses The high, pure honor of that manly mind, That, whether fortune smile or fate depresses, Can help and shield all weaker of his kind.
Brother of girls, they call him whose firm shoulders Sustain such wealth of friendship, sure and strong; And while in manhood’s breast one pure spark smolders, True brothers be to women old and young.
Brothers to all mankind whose weakness needs us, Without inquiring of their class or clime; So shall we follow where the glory leads us, So shall come back again earth’s golden prime.
Seraphs that lead in strength sped down when Daniel Called from the dreadful den for brother aid, Sent from the throne-side by the Lord Immanuel, Lest their poor human kin should be afraid.
And in the conflict all our lives with evil, Whether we fight with foes without, within, Whether where zephyrs waft or tempests revel, We strive with all our might the goal to win;
The angels own us brothers, and surround us With hearts of love and shields of heavenly steel; So may we give to hungry souls around us The brother help that we are made to feel.
He who at God’s right hand as Prince is reigning, Has made Himself a brother to us here; Let’s keep this kinship white, nor think of staining The link that welds us to that Brother dear.
So this soft net that clings about us ever Ties us to God, to angels, and to men; And its kind mesh includes, o’er plain and river, Our brothers of the air, the field, the fen.
Then rave and sing of happy days before us, When men shall brothers be the wide world o’er; When sweet “Our Father,” in earth’s full-voiced chorus, Shall fill our heaven with music evermore.
Then all the universe in diapason, The brother worlds, a hearty hymn shall raise, And thunder-bass in glad reverberation Blend true with cricket chirp in notes of praise.
The river’s murmur, and the mountain’s rumble, The bobolink’s satin trill, the eagle’s scream, Majestic harmonies and carols humble, Bless God that Brotherhood’s no more a dream.
T. R. WILLIAMSON.