Behold yon poor old man, that plods along,
Sadly and slowly in the crowded street.
How beggarly! Of those whom he doth meet,
Scarce one doth note him in that countless throng.
The very winds make sport of him, and rend
His tattered garments rude. Yet do not deem,
That he is all so lost, as he doth seem.
Though all desert him else, he hath one friend.
There is a God, who hath an equal eye,
Who marks the high, nor spurns the lowly one;
The wretched, whom the world pass scornfully,
May be the blood-bought purchase of his Son.
He deeper looks than the outside of things;
The beggar's soul to Him is as the soul of kings.