The lofty fane that cleaves the glowing sky,
And heavenward points with golden finger-tip--
Structure whence flows the sacred harmony
Of prayer and praise from Christian heart and lip:
The ranging corridors where--blest the task--
'Tis ours to soothe the fever and the pain
Of wounded natures, who, despairing, ask
For healing touch that makes them whole again.
These are the monuments that proudly stand
On corner stones--fruit of his princely hand:
Homes for the poor, wound-stricken to the sod;
And altars for the worship of his God.