Prayed for his murderers, and died.
———
LOVE COUNTETH NOT THE COST
There is an ancient story, simply told,
As ever were the holy things of old,
Of one who served through many a toiling year
To earn at last the joy he held most dear;
A weary term, to others strangely lost.
What mattered it? Love counteth not the cost.
Yet not alone beneath far Eastern skies