Ohrmann Museum & Gallery The Outlaw The Keeper of the Records spoke: “This man, O Lord, has mocked Thy Name, The weak have wept beneath his yoke The strong have fled before his flame. The blood of babes is on his sword; His life is evil to the brim: Look down, decree his doom, O Lord! Lo!  There is none will speak for him.” The golden trumpets blew a blast That echoed in the crypts of Hell, For there was judgment to be passed, And lips were hushed and silence fell. The man was mute, he made no stir, Erect before the Judgment Seat--- When all at once a mongrel cur Crept out and cowered and licked his feet. It licked his feet with whining cry. Come Heav’n, come Hell, what did it care? It leapt, it tried to catch his eye; Its master, yea, its God was there. Then, as a thrill of wonder sped Through throngs of shining seraphim The Judge of All looked down and said: “Lo! Here is one who pleads for him. And who should love of these the least, And who by word or look or deed Shall pity show to bird or beast, By Me shall have a friend in need.                       From “The Outlaw”                        Robert Service