There is no mark of course, but I have felt Here on my shoulder to this very day The grinding weight where that rough timber lay And left, an hour or two, its burning welt. I had no thought, no patriotic zeal, That morning there a hero’s part to play; Only, I saw his eyes which, as he lay Down in the dust, held mine in mute appeal. “A curse on you, Roman dogs,” I cried, And never felt the lash the soldier swung; Then we went together side by side, My back bent double as we climbed the hill To Calvary where on the cross he hung; And I am proud to say I feel its burden still.

(adapted, from Wadsworth)