Hiram H. Holland [Chicago, Ill.]; New York Age, March 18, 1915

Almighty God, from depths of dungeon dark
And bare as blighted trees bereft of bark,
We hear, beyond the borders of the dawn,
The raging war cry of Thy mortal spawn.

We, whom they boldly brand the “lesser breed,”
Fit prey, ordained, for Pale-faced Lust and Greed,
We see the boasted lords of law and light,
Headstrong, plunge on down to chaotic Night.

We, Lord, whose battered heads are black and meek,
Tho low we lie, we are not wholly weak.
We’re strong with all the strength of human love
That moves Thy Heart of Pity, Lord, above.

Forgetting then, O Lord, our hurting hearts,
Deep-ripped and torn to many ragged parts,
We hold our hands up, Lord, to thee, in prayer,
Great Lord of Love, our Blinded Brothers, spare.

But if, O Lord, to frame Thy final Plan,
Thy Foot must form a Bridge of mortal man,
Bend us, or black or white, to face the flood,
Tho it run red with our twin brother’s blood.