Big Cyrus in the old religion trod.
He was no reed whom winds of pleasure bowed;
With face as stony as the land he plowed
He read his Bible and he loved his God.
Scanning the heaven's face for frown or nod,
He watched his Master like a beaten dog,
But not a glimmer pierced the aweful fog
To show a clear intent - reward or rod.
And then he met a girl and thought the sign
That showed him numbered with the saints divine
Was in her love, but that was clothed in flesh
And flesh he knew was sin; caught in the mesh
Of indecision still he lingered on
Nor made his mind up till his chance was gone.