The Bedridden Peasant
Much wonder I—here long low-laid—That this dead wall should beBetwixt the Maker and the made,Between Thyself and me!
For, say one puts a child to nurse,He eyes it now and thenTo know if better ’tis, or worse,And if it mourn, and when.
But Thou, Lord, giv’st us men our clayIn helpless bondage thusTo Time and Chance, and seem’st straightwayTo think no more of us!
That some disaster cleft Thy schemeAnd tore us wide apart,So that no cry can cross, I deem;For Thou art mild of heart,
And would’st not shape and shut us inWhere voice can not he heard:’Tis plain Thou meant’st that we should winThy succour by a word.
Might but Thy sense flash down the skiesLike man’s from clime to clime,Thou would’st not let me agonizeThrough my remaining time;
But, seeing how much Thy creatures bear—Lame, starved, or maimed, or blind—Thou’dst heal the ills with quickest careOf me and all my kind.
Then, since Thou mak’st not these things be,But these things dost not know,I’ll praise Thee as were shown to meThe mercies Thou would’st show!
Sign in to like, rate and collect poems, and keep track of what you've read.