IS IT SO? by Sel.

Seventh-day Adventist Publishing Association · Battle Creek, Mich. · Mar 11, 1875

IS IT SO?

By Sel.

Is there no place on the face of the earth Where charity dwelleth, where virtue has birth? Where bosoms in kindness and mercy will heave, And the poor and the wretched shall ask and receive? Is there no place on earth where a knock from the poor, Will bring a kind angel to open the door? Ah! search the wide world wherever you can, There is no open door for the moneyless man.

Go look in the hall where the chandelier light Drives off with its splendor the darkness of night; Where the rich hanging velvet, in shadowy fold, Sweeps gracefully down with its trimmings of gold, And mirrors of silver take up and renew, In long lighted vistas the ’wildering view: Go there in your patches, and find if you can, A welcoming smile for the moneyless man.

Go look in your church of the cloud-reaching spire, Which gives back to the sun his same look of fire, Where the arches and columns are gorgeous within, And the walls seem as pure as a soul without sin, Go down the long aisle—see the hireling priest, Arrayed in the splendor of his ill-gotten fleece, Walk down in your patches, and find if you can, Who opens a pew for a moneyless man.

Go look to your judges, in dark flowing gown, With the scales wherein law weigheth quietly down; Where he frowns on the weak and smiles on the strong, And punishes right while he justifies wrong; Where jurors their lips on the Bible have laid, To render a verdict they've already made; Go there in the court-room and find if you can, Any law for the case of a moneyless man.

Go look in the banks, where Mammon has told His hundreds and thousands of silver and gold; Where, safe from the hands of the starving and poor, Lies pile upon pile of the glittering ore; Walk up to the counter—ah, there you may stay, Till your limbs have grown old and your hair turns gray, And you'll find at the bank not one of the clan, With money to lend to a moneyless man.

Then go to your hovel—no raven has fed, The wife who has suffered so long for her bread; Kneel down by her pallet and kiss the death frost, From the lips of the angel your poverty lost— Then turn in your agony upward to God, And bless while it smites you, the chastening rod; And you'll find at the end of life's little span, There's a welcome above for the moneyless man. —Sel.