Who never see the Light of Life,
Because their tortured spirits sleep,
Who drift beyond the shallow bar
And out upon the reckless deep,
Are half the grief of this fair world
That makes the weary angels weep.

Gray ashes on the hearth of God,
Forever scattered by His breath,
See how they dance along a wind
Thronged with the shapeless forms of death,
The garish lights their beacon fire,
The blasphemy their shibboleth.