Hidden in the hollow Of His blessed hand, Never foe can follow, Never traitor stand; Not a surge of worry, Not a shade of care, Not a blast of hurry Touch the Spirit there.
[Luke, holding stormtrooper helmet. ] Alas, poor stormtrooper, I knew ye not,
yet have I taken both uniform and life
From thee. What manner of a man wert thou?
A man of inf'nite jest or cruelty?
A man with helpmate and with children too?
A man who hath his Empire serv'd with pride?
A man, perhaps, who wish'd for perfect peace?
What'er thou wert, goodman, thy pardon grant
Unto the one who took thy place: e'en me.