JUST outside of the noisy town,
Half through thicket and wood revealed,
Hemmed about by a wall of stone,
Wide it lieth, the Potter's Field.
Brambles wander across the grass,
Vines creep over the broken wall,
Bindweeds blossom, and here and there
Stands a waif of the forest tall.
There no columns of gleaming white
Mark the dust that is sacred still;
Swings the gate on its rusty hinge —
All may enter and roam at will.
Who should hinder the ruthless hand,
Who protect from a vagrant's tread?
Guard the urns of the rich and great —
No one cares for the pauper dead!
Outlawed felon and sinless child
All find room in the Potter's Field.
There lies a Judas who sold his Lord,
Here a Mary, His pity healed.
Who could know of the shame and sin
Safely under the sod concealed?
Weary burdens of want and grief,
Laid away in the Potter's Field.
Who could guess?— for as swift and light
O'er it the feet of the seasons go;
Summer hides it with grace of flowers,
Winter spreads it with folds of snow.
Rains weep over the lonely mound,
Sunlight lingers, and swift shades pass;
Tender hands of the gentle wind
Smooth the knots of the tangled grass.
What though hallowed by Death alone,
Rest unbroken the sod doth yield;
Peace is here, for His constant watch
God doth set o'er the Potter's Field.