Poem August 29, 1901 Issue

Brotherhood

E. S. Martin

That plenty but reproaches me
Which leaves my brother bare,
Not wholly glad my heart can be
While his is bowed with care.
If I go free, and sound and stout
While his poor fetters clank,
Unsated still, I still cry out,
And plead with Whom I thank.

Almighty: Thou who Father be
Of him, of me, of all,
Draw us together, him and me,
That whichsoever fall,
The other's hand may fail him not—
The other's strength decline
No task of succor that his lot
May claim from son of Thine.

I would be fed. I would be clad.
I would be housed and dry.
But if so be my heart be sad—
What benefit have I?

E. S. Martin.

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