Classic Poem

Read me no moral, priest, upon my life,—
Reserve that for your flock.
A few short hours will end my mortal strife,
Upon the gallows block.

Before the gaping crowd, who come to see
A fellow mortal die,
Preach if you choose, and take your text from me,—
To them I cannot lie.

And still the less can I, a finite man,
Pretend to cheat my God:
By him the workings of his mighty plan
Are clearly understood.

Conceived in lust, brought up in sordid sin,
How could I hope to be
Aught but the outcast I have ever been,
Fruit for the gallows tree?

Go teach the children swarming through the town,
To-day exposed to all
The poverty and vice that drew me down,—
Save them before they fall.

But as for me, I die as I have lived,
As all men must,
Believing as I always have believed
That God is just.