The poem
Because I've come to eighty odd, I must prepare to meet you, God. What should I do? I cannot pray, I have no pious words to say; And though the Bible I might read, Scriptures don't meet my need.
Please tell me God what can I do To be acceptable to you? I've put in order my affairs, And left their portion to my heirs; And what remains I've willed to be A gift to Charity.
What must I do? I cannot kneel, Although a sense of you I feel, I will not show a coward's fear, Waiting until the end be near To pester you with mercy plea, --You'd be despising me.
I hope I have been kind and true; I've helped to happiness a few. I've made a mother's eye to smile, I've played with little ones a while. I do not know what is the score; Of good I might have done much more: But now I guess my exit's due;-- Dear God, it's up to You!