"Come—come, get up, we must be off; The Master waits—do not delay." I turn upon my bed of pain— The gray dawn of another day, And there in monkish robe and cowl, A long scythe in his bony hands Which rattle as he smoothes the blade, A stranger on the threshold stands. I reach for garments sadly worn, Upon the chair beside my bed; "No—no, not that!" the stranger cries, "The naked truth must do instead. Thy clothes are but a sorry mask— E'en flesh and bones are in the way; But—come, make haste, we must be off; The Master waits—do not delay." "But why this haste," perplexed, I cry; "May I not send some plea ahead That will outstrip me to the Goal?" "There's but one plea"—the stranger said:— "A group of seven simple words That thou, and thou alone must say; But come, we tarry—let's be off; The Master waits—do not delay." "One moment, stranger, pray be kind Enough to pause for one brief space; Where are those words that I alone Must speak to gain the Master's grace?" "They're hidden in the human heart— They're coins with which to pay the toll." "At last! I understand thee, friend,— May God have mercy on my soul." | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...ENGLAND (2) by WALTER JOHN DE LA MARE SOJOURN IN THE WHALE by MARIANNE MOORE THE ASS IN THE LION'S SKIN by AESOP I HAVE LOVED by JOHANNA AMBROSIUS DECEMBER by ELIZABETH V. AUVACHE DEAD JOYS by WILFRID SCAWEN BLUNT A POINT OF VIEW by LETITIA A. BRACE |