Done cruelty to any man or brute,
Or nailed Thy poor upon a cross of wood,
Or on a cross of gold, or iron, O, smite!
Smite with Thy rod and cast me from Thy sight.
LAST WORD
Let no man call me coward that I will die
And dip no more my bread in living’s foul
And muddy stream; but, God, accept my soul
Which into air so soon must wandering fly.
For I have never hated you at all,