His Epitaph

He wasn't rich; he wasn't great
His place was lowly and obscure
His clothing was not up-to-date
His house was tumble-down and poor

No special honor did he claim
He never walked with lords and kings
No glory has illumed his name
But he was kind to helpless things

He won no victories to boast
He made no conquests, waged no strife
He never led a conquering host;
He lived an unpretentious life

But when is writ the Judgment Scroll
And time its final verdict brings
This will be said of him:
His soul was rich in love for helpless things

From the Prelude in Poetry’s Plea for Animals: An Anthology of Justice and Mercy for our Kindred in Fur and Feathers by Francis E. Clarke.

I heard it on one of Colleen Patrick Goudreau's podcasts and thought I'd share.