Don't Call Thy Self A Martyr

Maybe all I've said is true
And all the lights shall shine anew.
Relying on our petty souls,
'Til Judgment day has come.

Yet something says inside of me,
Rueful, on the lines of solace it lay.
Mayhaps the gentler kind will bleed,
And set their petty pace.

Really, is there something there?
Tearing, thrashing at the sinew?
Yearning to let loose the hounds,
Rough and vagabond-eyed?