In thought our creeds we build, And with fancy colors gild.
To make them all our own
And reap what we have sown.

Sound theory is a prize;
Ropes of sand we despise;
They gender strife and hate,
And madness in debate.

At such a dismal sight,
Love weeps and takes her flight. Piety abhors the scene,
And stamps it beastly mean.

Disciples of the Lord
Will shun creeds of discord.
And cleave to charity,
The bond of harmony.

I hate the bigot's creed;
For partial grace they plead.
Stone blind to charity,
And all are lost but we.

Wesley, Ia., March 20, 1891