"Father, forgive them," was the Master's prayer
When buffeted, misunderstood, reviled.
His love could brook no recompense in kind,
But rather was his thought so reconciled
To good that he could rise above the lack
Of love that sprang from groundless prejudice,
And with compassion meet the base attack
Of those too blind to see God's handiwork.
Thus may we follow, if misunderstood,
Opposed, maligned, though standing for the true.
And may we breathe the Master's loving prayer,
"Father, forgive . . . they know not what they do."
