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His soul was resolute, and held No hiding-place for fear; He often said that he was glad The hangman's hands were near.
The watchers watched him as he slept, And could not understand How one could sleep so sweet a sleep With a hangman close at hand.
We did not dare to breathe a prayer, Or to give our anguish scope: Something was dead in each of us, And what was dead was Hope.
For he who lives more lives than one More deaths than one must die.
But there were those amongst us all Who walked with downcast head, And knew that, had each got his due, They should have died instead:
