General William Booth Enters into Heaven | Page 4

gently with a robe and crown?For Booth the soldier, while the throng knelt down.?He saw King Jesus. They were face to face,?And he knelt a-weeping in that holy place.?Are you washed in the blood of the Lamb?
The Drunkards in the Street
The Drunkards in the street are calling one another,?Heeding not the night-wind, great of heart and gay, --?Publicans and wantons --?Calling, laughing, calling,?While the Spirit bloweth Space and Time away.
Why should I feel the sobbing, the secrecy, the glory,?This comforter, this fitful wind divine??I the cautious Pharisee, the scribe, the whited sepulchre -- I have no right to God, he is not mine.

Within their gutters, drunkards dream of Hell.?I say my prayers by my white bed to-night,?With the arms of God about me, with the angels singing, singing Until the grayness of my soul grows white.
The City That Will Not Repent
Climbing the heights of Berkeley?Nightly I watch the West.?There lies new San Francisco,?Sea-maid in purple dressed,?Wearing a dancer's girdle?All to inflame desire:?Scorning her days of sackcloth,?Scorning her cleansing fire.
See, like a burning city?Sets now the red sun's dome.?See, mystic firebrands sparkle?There on each store and home.?See how the golden gateway?Burns with the day to be --?Torch-bearing fiends of portent?Loom o'er the earth and sea.
Not by the earthquake daunted?Nor by new fears made tame,?Painting her face and laughing?Plays she a new-found game.?Here on her half-cool cinders?'Frisco abides in mirth,?Planning the wildest splendor?Ever upon the earth.
Here on this crumbling rock-ledge?'Frisco her all will stake,?Blowing her bubble-towers,?Swearing they will not break,?Rearing her Fair transcendent,?Singing with piercing art,?Calling to Ancient Asia,?Wooing young Europe's heart.?Here where her God has scourged her?Wantoning, singing sweet:?Waiting her mad bad lovers?Here by the judgment-seat!
'Frisco, God's doughty foeman,?Scorns and blasphemes him strong.?Tho' he again should smite her?She would not slack her song.?Nay, she would shriek and rally --?'Frisco would ten times rise!?Not till her last tower crumbles,?Not till her last rose dies,?Not till the coast sinks seaward,?Not till the cold tides beat?Over the high white Shasta,?'Frisco will cry defeat.
God loves this rebel city,?Loves foemen brisk and game,?Tho', just to please the angels,?He may send down his flame.?God loves the golden leopard?Tho' he may spoil her lair.?God smites, yet loves the lion.?God makes the panther fair.
Dance then, wild guests of 'Frisco,?Yellow, bronze, white and red!?Dance by the golden gateway --?Dance, tho' he smite you dead!
The Trap
She was taught desire in the street,?Not at the angels' feet.?By the good no word was said?Of the worth of the bridal bed.?The secret was learned from the vile,?Not from her mother's smile.?Home spoke not. And the girl?Was caught in the public whirl.?Do you say "She gave consent:?Life drunk, she was content?With beasts that her fire could please?"?But she did not choose disease?Of mind and nerves and breath.?She was trapped to a slow, foul death.?The door was watched so well,?That the steep dark stair to hell?Was the only escaping way . . .?"She gave consent," you say?
Some think she was meek and good,?Only lost in the wood?Of youth, and deceived in man?When the hunger of sex began?That ties the husband and wife?To the end in a strong fond life.?Her captor, by chance was one?Of those whose passion was done,?A cold fierce worm of the sea?Enslaving for you and me.?The wages the poor must take?Have forced them to serve this snake.?Yea, half-paid girls must go?For bread to his pit below.?What hangman shall wait his host?Of butchers from coast to coast,?New York to the Golden Gate --?The merger of death and fate,?Lust-kings with a careful plan?Clean-cut, American?
In liberty's name we cry?For these women about to die.
O mothers who failed to tell?The mazes of heaven and hell,?Who failed to advise, implore?Your daughters at Love's strange door,?What will you do this day??Your dear ones are hidden away,?As good as chained to the bed,?Hid like the mad, or the dead: --?The glories of endless years?Drowned in their harlot-tears:?The children they hoped to bear,?Grandchildren strong and fair,?The life for ages to be,?Cut off like a blasted tree,?Murdered in filth in a day,?Somehow, by the merchant gay!
In liberty's name we cry?For these women about to die.
What shall be said of a state?Where traps for the white brides wait??Of sellers of drink who play?The game for the extra pay??Of statesmen in league with all?Who hope for the girl-child's fall??Of banks where hell's money is paid?And Pharisees all afraid?Of pandars that help them sin??When will our wrath begin?
Where is David, the Next King of Israel?
Where is David? . . . O God's people,?Saul has passed, the good and great.?Mourn for Saul the first-anointed --?Head and shoulders o'er the state.
He was found among the Prophets:?Judge and monarch, merged in one.?But the wars of Saul are ended?And the works of Saul are done.
Where is David, ruddy shepherd,?God's boy-king for Israel??Mystic, ardent, dowered with beauty,?Singing where still waters dwell?
Prophet, find that destined minstrel?Wandering on the range to-day,?Driving sheep