A Poem on the Occasion of a Christian Youth Rally

Seven thousand souls, a serried crowd;
Of sinners in a holy huddle, loud;
Not with confession or lament – no noise
Of broken humble supplicating voice
From throats made hoarse by moaning tearful hours.
Grave deities these would not serve, nor pow’rs
Of whispers small who suffer children come;
Divinities so meek are fine for some…

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