Majestic lord of all, to thee on high,
The struggling towns appear as vying dwarfs;
The rivers like to circling, creeping snakes;
Valleys, rich and broad, thy gardens are
Imperial—and all thine honors sing.
Sons of chiefs long vanquished played and danced
Before thy face; again the fathers prayed,
Their plea ascending, swift as thought, to Him
Who guided Abram 'mongst Judean hills.
What heart-breaks knowest thou of sire and son?
Of lover and beloved, of hate and hope?
Deepest depths and uplift to the heights?
I hear the music of thy hidden heart,
Sorrow's song, in-wrought with joy that's pure,
The process endless of the urging Cross—
A lofty peak of virtue and of peace
Art thou, O Jomeokee!
HER PRISON LIFE[1]
Her prison life was long and lone
Her kindred buried or unknown;
Of naught had she kept any score,
In truth her mind deprived of lore,
But knew her grief to be her own.
Another heart had better grown,
Confessing murder had he sown;
"I did the deed, and I deplore
Her prison life."
But hope and heart and health had flown;
Why cares she now what winds are blown?
"I guess I'll stay here as before,
My all is gone and evermore"—
Her living death, one long-drawn moan,
Her prison life.
- ↑ Based on a newspaper story of "Aunt" Sarah Wycoff in the North Carolina Penitentiary.
