Of old our father's God was real, Something they almost saw, Which kept them to a stern ideal And scourged¹ them into awe².

    They walked the narrow path of right Most vigilantly³ well, Because they feared eternal night And boiling depths of Hell.

    Now Hell has wholly boiled away And God become a shade. There is no place for him to stay In all the world He made.

    The followers⁴ of William James Still let the Lord exist, And call Him by imposing⁵ names, A venerable list. But nerve and muscle only count, Gray matter of the brain, And an astonishing amount Of inconvenient⁶ pain.

    I sometimes wish that God were back In this dark world and wide； For though sonic virtues⁷ He might lack, He had his pleasant side.