Judge not;the workings of his brain And of his heart thou canst not see;What looks to thy dim eyes a stain,In God's pure light may only be A scar,brought from some well-won field,Where thou wouldst only faint and yield.
The look,the air,that frets thy sight,May be a token,that below The soul has closed in deadly fight With some infernal fiery foe,Whose glance would scorch thy smiling grace,And cast thee shuddering on thy face!
The fall thou darest to despise -
May be the angel's slackened hand Has suffered it,that he may rise And take a firmer,surer stand;Or,trusting less to earthly things,May henceforth learn to use his wings.
And judge none lost;but wait,and see,With hopeful pity,not disdain;The depth of the abyss may be The measure of the height of pain And love and glory that may raise This soul to God in after days!
