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Wounded

I AM not brave
As others seem to be ;
But, like a knave,
I cringe in misery:
 
I cannot face
With smiles my wound’s keen bite ;
And, oh, a furnace
Is my bed at night!
 
O God, my God,
Give me the strength to see
Thy hand on the rod
That hotly scourges me!
Other works by Roderick Watson Kerr...



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