Scatterings of a Poem

Tis strange how women kneel in church and pray to God above,
Confess small sins and chant a praise and sing that He is love.
While coats of softly furred things upon their shoulders lie—
Of timid things, of tortured things, that take so long to die…

‘Tis strange to hear the organ peal— “have mercy on us, Lord,”
The benediction—peace to all—they bow with one accord
While from stained windows fall the lights on furs so softly warm,
Of timid things, of little things, that died in cold and storm.

But through the dark that night came one who set the timid spirit free,
I know your little anguish little one, so once men held and tortured me