Thomas Wade (1805–1875)

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.