Challenge Part 9

STRIKERS

In the mud and sc.u.m of things, Underneath the whole world's blot, Something, they tell us, always sings-- _Why do we hear it not?_

In the heart of things unclean, Somewhere, in the furious fight, The face of G.o.d is plainly seen-- _What has destroyed our sight?_

Yet have we heard enough to feel, Yet have we seen enough to know Who bound us to the awful wheel, Whose hands have brought us low.

And we shall cry out till the wind Roars in their ears the thing to come-- _Yea, though they made us deaf and blind, Nothing shall keep us dumb!_

IN THE SUBWAY

Chaos is tamed and ordered as we ride; The rock is rent, the darkness flung aside And all the horrors of the deep defied.

A coil of wires, a throb, a sudden spark-- And on a screaming meteor we embark That hurls us past the cold and breathless dark.

The centuries disclose their secret graves-- Riding in splendor through a world of waves The ancient elements become our slaves.

Uncanny fancies whisper to and fro; Terror and Night surround us here below, And through the house of Death we come and go...

And here, oh wildest glimpse of all, I see The score of men and women facing me Reading their papers calmly, leisurely.

BATTLE-CRIES

Yes, Jim hez gone--ye didn't know?

He's fightin' at the front.

It's him as bears 'his country's hopes'.

An' me as bears the brunt.

Wen war bruk out Jim 'lowed he'd go-- He allus loved a sc.r.a.p-- Ye see, the home warn't jest the place Fer sech a lively chap.

O' course, the work seems ruther hard; The kids is ruther small-- It ain't that I am sore at Jim, I envy him--that's all.

He doesn't know what he's about An' cares still less, does Jim...

With all his loose an' roarin' ways I wisht that I was him.

It makes him glad an' drunken-like That music an' the smoke; An' w'en they shout, the whole thing seems A picnic an' a joke.

Oh, yellin' puts a heart in ye, An' stren'th into yer blows-- I wisht that I could hears those cheers Washin' the neighbors clo'es...

It's funny how some things work out-- Life is so strange, Lord love us-- Here am I, workin' night an' day To keep a roof above us;

An' Jim is somewhere in the south, An' Jim ain't really bad, A-runnin' round an' raisin' Cain, An' stabbin' some kid's dad.

But that's w'at men are made for--eh?

W'at else is there for me But workin' on till Jim comes home, Sick of his b.l.o.o.d.y spree.

A VOICE FROM THE SWEAT-SHOPS

(_A HYMN WITH RESPONSES_)

"_Praise G.o.d from Whom all blessings flow; Praise Him all creatures here below.

Every morning mercies new Fall as fresh as morning dew._"

Yet we are choked with sin With b.e.s.t.i.a.l l.u.s.ts and guile; G.o.d (so it runs) made this world clean And Man has made it vile.

Aye, here Man lives on man, And breaks him day by day-- But in the trampled jungle The tiger claws his prey.

G.o.d's curse is on the thief; The murderer fares ill-- Who gave the beasts their taste for blood Who taught them how to kill?

"_All praise to Him Who built the hills, All praise to Him Who each stream fills; All praise to Him Who lights each star That sparkles in the sky afar._"

All praise to Him who made The earthquake and the flood; All praise to Him who made the pest That sucks away the blood.

All praise to Him whose mind Had the desire to make The shark, the scorpion, the gnat And the envenomed snake.

Beauty itself He turns To slay and to be slain-- A thousand evil poisons His peaceful woods contain.

"_Lift up your heart! Lift up your voice!

Rejoice! Again I say, rejoice!

For His mercies, they are sure His compa.s.sion will endure!_"

Rejoice because each man Has but a man's desire To sin the little human sins As a child that plays with fire.

Rejoice because G.o.d's plans Are far too deep for talk...

He lets the swallow feed on flies-- Then gives it to the hawk!

Rejoice because He made A world in some wild mood; A world that feeds upon itself-- '_And G.o.d saw it was good..._'

Yet who are we to rail-- Vainly we strive and storm-- G.o.d moves in a mysterious way His wonders to perform!

'Blind unbelief is sure to err,'

They say, and yet again, 'G.o.d is His own interpreter'-- _When will He make it plain?_

SOLDIERS

Gay flags flying down the street; Comes the drum's insistent beat Like a fierce, gigantic pulse, And the screaming fife exults.