He lies with snow-white hands upon his breast,
Those hands so white for more than eighty years;
There is no gloom nor any place for tears;
He fought his fight, he wins a warrior’s rest.
Come near, and gaze ye thousands who he blessed
Truth was his sword, and words of love his spears,
His shield was faith, the faith that perseveres,
The faith that in the worst can see the best.
He is not here, this body, calm and still,
Once full of fire, now cold, insensate clay,
Is but an outworn garment; let it lie.
But underneath the banner of his will
For Christ who died his followers sworn to die
Shall forward march till dark be turned to day.
(Hull Daily Mail, 28 August 1912, p. 3)