Page:The cry for justice - an anthology of the literature of social protest. - (IA cryforjusticea00sinc).pdf/171

 For where a grave had opened wide There was no grave at all: Only a stretch of mud and sand By the hideous prison-wall, And a little heap of burning lime, That the man should have his pall.

For he has a pall, this wretched man, Such as few men can claim; Deep down below a prison-yard, Naked for greater shame, He lies, with fetters on each foot, Wrapt in a sheet of flame!

I know not whether Laws be right, Or whether Laws be wrong; All that we know who lie in jail Is that the wall is strong; And that each day is like a year, A year whose days are long.

But this I know, that every Law That men have made for Man, Since first Man took his brother's life, And the sad world began, But straws the wheat and saves the chaff With a most evil fan.

This too I know—and wise it were If each could know the same— That every prison that men build Is built with bricks of shame, And bound with bars lest Christ should see How men their brothers maim.