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The Drums

And if a man does not keep step with his fellows, it may be that he hears a different drummer.”


THE millions, to the drums they know,
Their route march follow day by day,
And witness dumbly, as they go,
Unto their little gods of clay.

But drums there are the few men hear
With wakened pulses leaping high
For love that knows not how to fear,
For faith that grudges not to die.

And he who hears, his life must take
As dust within his hollowed hand,
And fare, for his white vision's sake,
An exile in a lonely land.

Ah, still the drums are calling clear,
Nor hidden drummer one may see.
Yet some may hear him, now, and here—
So Jesus heard in Galilee!