By William Mulder
From Babylon he came, steadfast his tread
Upon these shores to which his pilgrim feet
Were brought, where new-found liberty made sweet
His daily bread.
A child of providence, he knew the meek
Were earth’s inheritors; yet in his stride,
Humility seemed haughtier than pride:
He was not weak.
Iron the hand upon his staff, the rod
Which led him out upon the narrow way;
He had no fear what man might do or say:
He served but God.
For every word and act, the Book his guide,
The burden of his righteousness; his creed,
Though stern and militant, made faith his need:
He lived by it and died.
He wrought salvation here, but held his eye
Upon the glory of the world to come;
His pilgrim’s progress on the earth is done:
His hope gave doubt the lie.
Give thanks his soul was fire; give thanks he stood
In freedom’s wilderness and spent his zeal
In serving God; he built a commonweal
Of lasting good.