Poison

When this strange world speaks ill of me,

With tongues of poison, and unkind-

What can I do but seek the poor,

And leave my silver mark behind?

When I, a silent stranger, make

Them wonder if Christ comes again-

Have I not found a shilling cure,

When suffering from a poisoned brain?

One silver shilling, white and clean,

Left with a poor man, old and blind-

And here I stand, all poison-proof,

Till every tongue grows sweet and kind.