The Lord Who Gave Us

Lord, Give To Me Who Are Old And Rougher The Things That Little Children Suffer, And Let Keep Bright And Undefiled The Young Years Of The Little Child.

Quinquireme Of Nineveh From Distant Ophir, Rowing Home To Haven In Sunny Palestine, With A Cargo Of Ivory, And Apes And Peacocks, Sandalwood, Cedarwood, And Sweet White Wine.

The Social States Of Human Kinds Are Made By Multitudes Of Minds, And After Multitudes Of Years A Little Human Growth Appears Worth Having, Even To The Soul Who Sees Most Plain It's Not The Whole.

State Are Not Made, Nor Patched; They Grow; Grow Slow Through Centuries Of Pain, And Grow Correctly In The Main; But Only Grow By Certain Laws, Of Certain Bits In Certain Jaws.

All The Great Things Of Life Are Swiftly Done, Creation, Death, And Love The Double Gate. However Much We Dawdle In The Sun We Have To Hurry At The Touch Of Fate.