In falling timbers buried

In falling timbers buried

There breathed a man.

Outside the spades were plying,

The lungs within.

Could he know they sought him,

Could they know he breathed,

Horrid sand partition,

Neither could be heard.

Never slacked the diggers,

But when spades had done,

Oh reward of anguish,

It was dying then.

Many things are fruitless,

'Tis a baffling earth,

But there is no gratitude

Like the Grace of death.