Big Cyrus

Big Cyrus in the old religion trod.He was no reed whom winds of pleasure bowed;With face as stony as the land he plowedHe 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 fogTo show a clear intent - reward or rod.

And then he met a girl and thought the signThat showed him numbered with the saints divineWas in her love, but that was clothed in fleshAnd flesh he knew was sin; caught in the meshOf indecision still he lingered onNor made his mind up till his chance was gone.