Classic Poem

Surely we stumble toward an evil day,
For us of late is freedom's path too steep,
Her words perverted in our mouths; we keep
Our bondage willing, aye, endure the sway
Of trickster's hands and redder hands that slay:
Yet this no season to lament or weep,
But to arise and with tempestuous sweep
Hurl the false idols from their seat of clay.

Thou whom the people's voice acclaims their own,
Thou their defender, shalt approach the throne
Of the blind goddess with the awful rod,
And she will know thee victor without flaw,
Or else set Guile above the shrine of God,
And break in twain the tablets of the Law.