W H A T   P R O F I T   A   M A N   ?

Ye graspers of power of greed insatiate!
Who shield behind a doctrine - to mask a
selfish hate;
What profit can ye claim for self, while on this
       lowly earth,
If thousands hunger through your creed and
suffer from their birth

Could ye but gather all your powers, within
your clutching claws,
In golden mantle wrap yourselves, and fill your
craving jaws
The whole would help ye, not a bit, to reach
desired goals,
If ye, while doing thus should lose, your own
immortal souls!

With fingers dripping blood, ye count
your worldly gain;
Each cross upon a victim's grave, but means
another stain;
The widows weeds - the cripples plight - the use-
less misery
All caused by that desire for power, that ye
       might greater be!

The humble worker toiling on - is rich compared
to you,
He takes with him, when day is done - that
       which ye'll never do;
The beggar sharing filthy crust, knows more of
       peace of mind,
Than ye, with all your wealth and power, can
       ever hope to find

The day will come to yield your power: What
       will your answer be?
When ye are asked: "Where is thy gain - where
is thy victory?"
Will ye have naught to show but Self, for all
your earthly spell?
Before ye pass, as soulless mass - into the jaws
       of Hell?