Not far from New York, in a cemetery lone
Close guarding its grave, stands a simple headstone;
And all the inscription is one word alone—
Forgiven.
No sculptor's fine art has embellished its form;
But constantly there, through the calm and the
storm,
It bears this one Word from a poor fallen worm—
Forgiven.
It shows not the date of the silent one's birth,
Reveals not his sins, nor lies of his worth;
But speaks out the tale from his few feet of
earth—
Forgiven.
The death is not mentioned, the name is untold,
Beneath lies the body, corrupted and cold,
Above rests his spirit, at home in the fold.
And when from the heavens the Lord shall
descend,
This stranger shall rise and to glory ascend,
Well known and befriended, to sing without
end—
Forgiven.