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!
ADELAIDE A. PROCTER.