John Brown

Writ in between the lines of his life-deed
  We trace the sacred service of a heart
  Answering the Divine command, in every part
  Bearing on human weal: His love did feed
  The loveless; and his gentle hands did lead
  The blind, and lift the weak, and balm the smart
  Of other wounds than rankled at the dart
  In his own breast, that gloried thus to bleed.
  He served the lowliest first--nay, them alone--
  The most despised that e'er wreaked vain breath
  In cries of suppliance in the reign whereat
  Red Guilt sate squat upon her spattered throne.--
  For these doomed there it was he went to death.
  God! how the merest man loves one like that!