Judge not; the workings of his brain
And of his heart thou cannot see;
What looks to your dim eyes a stain,
In God's pure light may only be
A scar, brought from some well-won field,
Where thou would 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 slackened angel’s 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!