EXIT GODOf old our father’s God was real,Something they almost saw,Which kept them to a stern idealAnd scourged them into awe.They walked the narrow path of rightMost vigilantly well,Because they feared eternal nightAnd boiling depths of Hell.Now Hell has wholly boiled awayAnd God become a shade.There is no place for him to stayIn all the world He made.The followers of William JamesStill let the Lord exist,And call Him by imposing names,A venerable list.But nerve and muscle only count,Gray matter of the brain,And an astonishing amountOf inconvenient pain.I sometimes wish that God were backIn this dark world and wide;For though some virtues He might lack,He had his pleasant side.GAMALIEL BRADFORD
Of old our father’s God was real,Something they almost saw,Which kept them to a stern idealAnd scourged them into awe.They walked the narrow path of rightMost vigilantly well,Because they feared eternal nightAnd boiling depths of Hell.Now Hell has wholly boiled awayAnd God become a shade.There is no place for him to stayIn all the world He made.The followers of William JamesStill let the Lord exist,And call Him by imposing names,A venerable list.But nerve and muscle only count,Gray matter of the brain,And an astonishing amountOf inconvenient pain.I sometimes wish that God were backIn this dark world and wide;For though some virtues He might lack,He had his pleasant side.
GAMALIEL BRADFORD