WE GO our ways in life too much alone;

We hold ourselves too far from all our kind; Too often we are dead to sigh and moan;

Too often to the weak and helpless blind; Too often, where distress and want abide,

We turn and pass upon the other side.

The other side is trodden smooth, and worn By footsteps passing idly all the day.

Where lie the bruised ones that faint and mourn, Is seldom more than an untrodden way;

Our selfish hearts are for our feet the guide, They lead us by upon the other side.

It should be ours the oil and wine to pour Into the bleeding wounds of stricken ones;

To take the smitten, and the sick and sore,

And bear them where a stream of blessing runs;

Instead, we look about - the way is wide, And so we pass upon the other side.

Olh, friends and brothers, gliding down the years,

Humanity is calling each and all In tender accents, born of grief and tears!

I pray you, listen to the thrilling call; You cannot, in your cold and selfish pride.

Pass guiltlessly by on the other side.