Thought molded
By Pharisee,
Walking apart,
Cold of heart—
Unaware of the hurt,
Of the smart;
Here where the dead
Bury their dead
There is no place
Where the Son of man
Can lay his head.
Those afraid
Of the jeering throng,
Of the mocker's song,
Dare not wing
For the fetterless flight
Up to the height
Of the Love that knows
No foes.
No place for the one
Who walks alone
To the cross
On the height of the hill—
Beholding the brightness and splendor of dawn
Through the night,
Through the blackness of doubt,
Through the dark of despair,
Through lonely night,
One star alight.
