Strike home, strong-hearted man! Down to the root <br />Of old oppression sink the Saxon steel. <br />Thy work is to hew down. In God's name then <br />Put nerve into thy task. Let other men <br />Plant, as they may, that better tree whose fruit <br />The wounded bosom of the Church shall heal. <br />Be thou the image-breaker. Let thy blows <br />Fall heavy as the Suabian's iron hand, <br />On crown or crosier, which shall interpose <br />Between thee and the weal of Fatherland. <br />Leave creeds to closet idlers. First of all, <br />Shake thou all German dream-land with the fall <br />Of that accursed tree, whose evil trunk <br />Was spared of old by Erfurt's stalwart monk. <br />Fight not with ghosts and shadows. Let us hear <br />The snap of chain-links. Let our gladdened ear <br />Catch the pale prisoner's welcome, as the light <br />Follows thy axe-stroke, through his cell of night. <br />Be faithful to both worlds; nor think to feed <br />Earth's starving millions with the husks of creed. <br />Servant of Him whose mission high and holy <br />Was to the wronged, the sorrowing, and the lowly, <br />Thrust not his Eden promise from our sphere, <br />Distant and dim beyond the blue sky's span; <br />Like him of Patmos, see it, now and here, <br />The New Jerusalem comes down to man <br />Be warned by Luther's error. Nor like him, <br />When the roused Teuton dashes from his limb <br />The rusted chain of ages, help to bind <br />His hands for whom thou claim'st the freedom of <br />the mind<br /><br />John Greenleaf Whittier<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/to-ronge/
