The finger writes again but not on stone;
It writes on fleshy tables of the heart;
And none today should wish to break his own
Or the world's heart and crave another start.
The finger writes. Its words are full of grace—
Love for all men, ourselves and one another—
A new commandment, light on upturned face,
Warmth and compassion, felt brother for brother.
Who feels the imprint on his heart of hearts?
And who will live the words, tender and wise?
To love each other is the art of arts,
For all are lovely in the Father's eyes.
Love is the strength that bursts the prison door,
That walks through flames, unsinged and unafraid.
Love is the conqueror of hate and war,
And he who loves has all the law obeyed.
