Classic Poem

It is God's honour on my head
That drives me forth to walk alone,
Among the lighter-footed dead,
Upon this hollow path of stone.

It is God's honour on my hands
That makes them cold in such a wise
That I must clench them; his commands
Thus mercifully stigmatize.

It is God's honour on my feet
That sets a nail in either shoe
To spur them down the common street;
This is the thing I always knew.