How, by all but dogs forsaken, the poor beggar's form grew cold,
And the angels bore his spirit to the mansions built of gold.
How, at last, the rich man perished, and his spirit took its flight,
From the purple and fine linen to the home of endless night;
There he learned, as he stood gazin' at the beggar in the sky,
"It isn't all of life to live, nor all of death to die."
I doubt not there were wealthy sires in that religious fold,
Who went up from their dwellings like the Pharisee of old,
Then returned home from their worship, with a head uplifted high,
To spurn the hungry from their door, with naught to satisfy.