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[194] For truth's worst foe is he who claims
     To act as God's avenger,
And deems, beyond his sentry-beat,
     The crystal walls in danger!

Who sets for heresy his traps
     Of verbal quirk and quibble,
And weeds the garden of the Lord
     With Satan's borrowed dibble.

To-day our hearts like organ keys
     One Master's touch are feeling;
The branches of a common Vine
     Have only leaves of healing.

Co-workers, yet from varied fields,
     We share this restful nooning;
The Quaker with the Baptist here
     Believes in close communing.

Forgive, dear saint, the playful tone,
     Too light for thy deserving;
Thanks for thy generous faith in man,
     Thy trust in God unswerving.

Still echo in the hearts of men
     The words that thou hast spoken;
No forge of hell can weld again
     The fetters thou hast broken.

The pilgrim needs a pass no more
     From Roman or Genevan;
Thought-free, no ghostly tollman keeps
     Henceforth the road to Heaven!

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