THROUGH the straight pass of
suffering
The
martyrs even trod,
Their feet upon
temptation,
Their faces upon
God.
A stately, shriven company;
Convulsion playing round,
Harmless as streaks of meteor
Upon a plant’s bound.
Their faith the everlasting troth;
Their expectation fair;
The needle to the north degree
Wades so, through polar air
-Emily Dickinson