The True Martyr

The Martyr worthiest of the bleeding name
Is he whose life a bloodless part fulfils;
Whom racks nor tortures tear, nor poniard kills,
Nor heat of bigots' sacrificial flame:
But whose great soul can to herself proclaim
The fulness of the everlasting ills
Wherewith all pain'd Creation writhes and thrills,
And yet pursue unblench'd her solemn aim:

Who works, all knowing work's futility,
Creates, all conscious of ubiquitous death,
And hopes, believes, adores, while Destiny
Points from Life's steep to all her graves beneath:
Whose thought 'mid scorching woes is found apart,
Perfect amid the flames, like Cranmer's heart.