Shall we count offences or coin excuses,
Or weigh with scales the soul of a man,
Whom a strong hand binds and a sure hand looses,
Whose light is a spark and his life a span?
The seed he sowed or the soil he cumbered,
The time he served or the space he slumbered,
Will it profit a man when his days are numbered,
Or his deeds since the days of his life began?
A little season of love and laughter,
Of light and life, and pleasure and pain,
And a horror of outer darkness after,
And dust returns to dust again;
Then the lesser life shall be as the greater,
And the lover of light shall join the hater,
And the one thing comes sooner or later,
And no one knows the loss or gain.