Judge not the workings of his brain
And of his heart thou canst not see;
What looks to thy dim eyes a stain
In God’s pure light may only be
A scar, brought from some well-won field,
Where thou would’st only faint and yield.
And judge none lost; but wait and see,
With hopeful pity, not disdain;
The depth of the abyss may be
The measure of the height of pain
And love and glory that may raise
The soul to God in after days!
Adelaide A. Procter.
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