But whether I do the best I can
To soften the weight of Adversity's touch
On the faded cheek of my fellow man,
It matters much.
It matters little where be my grave—
Or on the land or in the sea,
By purling brook or 'neath stormy wave,
It matters little or naught to me;
But whether the Angel Death comes down,
And marks my brow with his loving touch,