A warrior stood before his Master,
Bruised and bleeding from the fight,
Not for power, neither honor,
But in battling for the right.

Torn and tattered was his body,
Gashed and wounded was his face,
Stood he waiting for the Master
To assign his resting place.

The Master gazed on him in pity,
Saw the form which He had made,
Once like His, now so distorted;
Gazed into his face and said:

'Tell me, son, is this the body
That I gave you for awhile—
Given you so pure and holy,
You return it so defiled?'

''Master,' said the trembling soldier,
'In yonder world where I have been,
Daily I've encountered battle
With the daring monster, Sin.

'Each step I fought my journey through;
He strove to keep me from the goal;
Though he scored me yet I conquered;
Master, he's not scarred the soul.'

The Master saw the soul still shining,
Thought of His own hand and side,
Beckoned to the brightest heaven
That the gate be opened wide.

Then the Master cried, 'Immortal!'
The soul came flashing from his breast,
Pointing to the fairest heaven,'
'Enter thou in peaceful rest!'