Classic Poem

With cassock black, baret and book,
Father Saran goes by;
I think he goes to say a prayer
For one who has to die.

Even so, some day, Father Saran
May say a prayer for me;
Myself meanwhile, the Sister tells,
Should pray unceasingly.

They kneel who pray: how may I kneel
Who face to ceiling lie,
Shut out by all that man has made
From God who made the sky?

They lift who pray—the low earth-born—
A humble heart to God:
But O, my heart of clay is proud—
True sister to the sod.

I look into the face of God,
They say bends over me;
I search the dark, dark face of God—
O what is it I see?

I see—who lie fast bound, who may
Not kneel, who can but seek—
I see mine own face over me,
With tears upon its cheek.