O Sophistry! how many lips have kissed And fondled thy puft hand, bedaub'd with ink Of the 'higher criticism', which does not shrink To substitute, for our sound faith in Christ, A dreamy, hollow, unsubstantial creed: Strikes its small penknife through the covenants Both old and new, and, in a trice, supplants Without replacing, all we love and need; How blank will be thy scholarly regret To see these blurred and shredded Gospels mount Beyond the knives and ink-horns! - buoyant yet With native strength, of which thou madest no count, And, as heaven's lively oracles, confest By all, disprove, perforce, each lying test. |