Classic Poem

The Sister for her soul's white sake,
The Doctor for his trade,
Druscilla for the pence she'll make—
(Our dreary little maid);

Sweet Sister Christopher for peace;
Father Saran to win
A seat of surety and ease
Far from the fear of sin.

The folk that pay us tithes—again
'T is for their hearts' relief,
That we have burdened with our pain,
And wounded with our grief.

The Sister for her soul's white sake—
(I say it o'er and o'er)—
So many are the ways they take,
To serve our needs the more:

So many are the ends they'd make
Through pathway of our need.
The smoking flax for torch they take,
For crutch—the bruiséd reed.