It is too easy not to like
Jesus,
It worries greatness
To an early grave
Without any inkling
Of what is wise.
So when I am old,
And so foolish with pain
No one who knows
me
Can tell from which
Senility or fancy
I deign to speak,
I may sing
In my cracked and ugly voice
Of Jesus my good
Friend;
Just as the old women
In my home town
Do now.