Classic Poem

The saints who love the Crucified
Are humble, for their wealth is great.
They may go royally arrayed
In color of their high estate.

But I who am no saint at all
And poor in every priceless thing
Put on a draggled coat of pride
That I may face the world and sing.

Oh, I would gladly lay it by
As cumbersome and ill to bear,
But, Father, pity poverty,—
I have no other coat to wear.