Yet, I am proud, though you rebuke me.
Slave I am, but slave whose power doth swell.
With sickness, poison, war, you say I dwell—
‘Tis true, and you fear each because of me.
Slave I am, but slave beneath whom ev’ry
Other slave doth tremble and his pride quell!
Through me fate sends kings and peasants to hell.
I rule the streets with pow’r to make men flee.
My sting doth burn, and on the living, see
My marks—on those who grieve the empty shell
Of one they loved, who cold before me fell—
The tears of those who mourn prove me mighty.
True, I am slave, and soon the end shall bring
My end, for now my bitterness doth sting.
Taken from the 2020 edition of Artos, the literary journal of Bethlehem College & Seminary students. Photo by C. Williams, B.A. ’19