IF NOT A PENCE TO BURY ME

From dust to dust it matters not
If in a pauper's grave I lay,
Plain wooden box, not satin lined,
No stone engraved to mark my place.

Though all above be flattened ground,
No monument to mark the dead,
I know of one who'll know I'm there...
Amidst the throwaways and poor.

If come my death, in poverty,
What matters, I, a lonely grave,
Bones to decay, my shell left there,
My soul will freely upward soar.

A potter's field may be my fate,
Stretched wide for eyes to see,
But over me be God's green earth,
And daisies blooming to mark me.