by John Vance Cheney
A lone soul came to Heaven's hard gate,
Low at the warder's feet she fell;
Sobbing, she said she had not knocked so late
But for the many roads to Hell.
Stroking her bowed, unmothered head,
Up spoke the good old warder gray:
"This child, too fair, high up let her be led,
Past them that never lost the way."
Last updated January 14, 2019