The doll in her house of wealth,
The wanton in langour and lust,
That shadowy form of stealth
In the street, with her soul in the dust;

Ah yes, and that soulless propriety
Who sold herself for a home,
Put chains on her life, called it piety,
A slave beneath heaven's blue dome,

Shall look up and see Christ some day,
From the ashes of self shall arise
And follow, not far away
The beckoning hand of the skies.

God will not forget in the morn
To freshen His flowers with dew;
Already the new age is born—
When His beautiful dream shall come true,

When His garden completing,
He hears in the towers of time
His great bell-tones beating
The joy of His perfected chime.