(On the exhumation of John Henry Newman.)
Resting on his breast.
Resting in his grave.
Closer than a wife.
More distant than a slave.
To love better the grace-lost world,
he loved where friendship blessed.
But those who thought
they loved him more
broke heart, and faith, and rest.
Altar sanctified with dust.
Pious plan confounded.
Heart speaks to heart
in the damp earth compounded.
Copyright (c) 2014 Woodgrange.
