I am my brother's keeper. When he knocks
Upon my door what room do I provide
For shelter—one with bars and locks,
A dungeon where no sun and air abide?
Or do I gladly wield a mental broom
And furnish, for both comfort and delight,
My best, my many-windowed upper room,
And bid him welcome to it day or night?
Am I my brother's keeper? Yes, I am.
And when he comes to me, oh, may I know
The love that carried in its arms a lamb,
That raised up Lazarus and let him go.
