He bubbled full of divine joy;
His picture always smiles.
Though overburdened with the world,
He danced on Clapham’s green.
His house was always full of guests;
His table overflowed.
He chased his children round the room
And coughed a quiet knell.
He called for Sunday to consume
Our tokenistic hearts.
He said his piece to one and all
And ran his body dry.
While others went to Opera Night,
He spoke to silent rooms
And voted till his conscience bled
And set the captives free.
He lived without compartments in
His heart or in his home;
What grace had overflowed within
He poured into the world.