Judge Not

Adelaide Anne Procter (1825–1864)

JUDGE not; the workings of his brain

And of his heart thou canst not see;

What looks to thy dim eyes a stain,

In God’s pure light may only be

A scar, brought from some well-won field,

Where thou wouldst only faint and yield.

The look, the air, that frets thy sight

May be a token that below

The soul has closed in deadly fight

With some infernal fiery foe,

Whose glance would scorch thy smiling grace

And cast thee shuddering on thy face!

The fall thou darest to despise,—

May be the angel’s slackened hand

Has suffered it, that he may rise

And take a firmer, surer stand;

Or, trusting less to earthly things,

May henceforth learn to use his wings.

And judge none lost; but wait and see,

With hopeful pity, not disdain;

The depth of the abyss may be

The measure of the height of pain

And love and glory that may raise

This soul to God in after days!