The Poor of London

Almighty God, whose Justice, like a sun
Shall coruscate along the floors of heaven:
Raising what’s low, perfecting what’s undone,
Breaking the proud, and making odd things even.
The Poor of Jesus Christ along the street
In your rain sodden, in your snows unshod,
They have nor hearth, nor roof, nor daily meat,
Nor even the bread of men; Almighty God.

The Poor of Jesus Christ whom no man hears
Have called upon your vengeance much too long.
Wipe out not tears but blood: our eyes bleed tears:
Come, smite our damnéd sophistries so strong,
That thy rude hammer battering this rude wrong
Ring down the abyss of twice ten thousand years.