’Tis easy to cry “Raca” from within
Cold, passionless morality’s strong tower,
To those who struggle fiercely, hour by hour,
’Gainst grim Goliaths of unconquered sin.
’Tis easy, safely far from battle’s din,
To wave a sword or raise a banner high
To those who have to fight each inch, or—die;
Who must be wounded, even if they win.
’Tis easy to point clean, weak hands of scorn
When some much-tempted brother falls or flies;
Or some sweet Eve has strayed from Paradise
Into the outer world of briar and thorn.
But in the great, high council of the skies
There’s One who reads men’s hearts with milder eyes.