Private Judgment

Poor wand’rers, ye are sore distress’d
To find that path which Christ has bless’d,
  Track’d by His saintly throng;
Each claims to trust his own weak will,
Blind idol!⁠—so ye languish still,
  All wranglers and all wrong.

He saw of old, and met your need,
Granting you prophets of His creed,
  The throes of fear to swage;
They fenced the rich bequest He made,
And sacred hands have safe convey’d
  Their charge from age to age.

Wand’rers! come home! obey the call!
A Mother pleads, who ne’er let fall
  One grain of Holy Truth;
Warn you and win she shall and must,
For now she lifts her from the dust,
  To reign as in her youth.