"Tell me, grey haired sexton", said I,
"Wherein the field are the wicked folk laid?
I have wandered the quiet old graveyard through,
And studied the Epitaphs, Old and New
But on Monument, Oblisk, Pillar or Stone
I read no evil that men have done."
The old Sexton stood by a grave newly made
With his chin on his hand, his hand on a spade
"Who is the judge when the soul takes it's flight?
Who is the Judge 'twixt the wrong and the right?
Which of us mortals shall dare to say
That our neighbour was wicked who died today?"
In our journey through life, the further we speed,
The better we learn that humility's need
Is charity's spirit that prompts us to find
Rather virtue than vice in the lives of our kind.
Therefore good deeds we record on these stones;
The evil men do, let it rest with their bones;
I have laboured as Sexton this many a year,
But I never buried a bad man here.
