It was not Saint -- it was too large --
Nor Snow -- it was too small --
It only held itself aloof
Like something spiritual --
YE men of wit and wealth, why all this sneering
’Gainst poor Excisemen? Give the cause a hearing:
What are your Landlord’s rent-rolls?—Taxing ledgers!
What Premiers?—What ev’n Monarchs?—Mighty Gaugers!
Nay, what are Priests? (those seeming godly wise-men,)
What are they, pray, but Spiritual Excisemen!
Assistance and victory in the spiritual warfare.
For ever blessed be the Lord,
My Savior and my shield;
He sends his Spirit with his word,
To arm me for the field.
When sin and hell their force unite,
He makes my soul his care,
Instructs me to the heav'nly fight,
And guards me through the war.
A friend and helper so divine
Does my weak courage raise;
He makes the glorious vict'ry mine,
And his shall be the praise.
The browns, the olives, and the yellows died,
And were swept up to heaven; where they glowed
Each dawn and set of sun till Christmastide,
And when the land lay pale for them, pale-snowed,
Fell back, and down the snow-drifts flamed and flowed.
From off your face, into the winds of winter,
The sun-brown and the summer-gold are blowing;
But they shall gleam with spiritual glinter,
When paler beauty on your brows falls snowing,
And through those snows my looks shall be soft-going.