Poems (Curwen)/The Cripple

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The Cripple.
AN APPEAL.
Stay! for one moment stay!  Ye who are sound of limb, Whom God has blest with health,  And hear my plea for him.
Compare your happy lot  With his poor crippled state; Thank Providence that you  Are spared so sad a fate.
How sharp the contrast 'twixt  His helpless lot and ours; What weariness is his,  What pleasure mine and yours.
Ye, who delight to"trip  The light fantastic toe," Or, on the whirling wheel  For healthful spin to go,
Think what a life he has,  How sad, how melancholy, As he propels his way  Cramped on his little trolley.
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Think you if Christ were here,  That He would pass him by? Nay! the poor blighted form  Would ne'er escape His eye.
We ask you then for aid,  Not in the cripple's name, But in the name of Him  Who healed the sick and lame.
The pence you will not miss  We ask for, not your gold; Give! and He will return  To you a hundred fold.


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