X.

Awake, alive to pain! The first steel gleam of morn

Stabs deep the heart I thought had shrunk to dust,

The love I prayed might die to loveless scorn

Awakes and cries... Ah, God, how is it just

A fault so slight such meed of pain should pay,

That one mad word in pride and anger spoken

Should leave two lives forever crushed and broken,

Should plait a scourge to lash my soul for aye?

How can a just God see men suffer thus?—

Unheedful of the cosmic cry of pain,

Unmoved by all the pangs that torture us,

Knowing our prayers and tears alike are vain —

Like to a wanton boy who feels no thrill

Of pity for the weak his strength holds thrall,

Who pins a helpless butterfly against a wall,

Watching the bright wings flutter and grow still.

We are the sport of some malignant Power

Who nails us to our crosses, hard and fast,

Who sees us flutter for a little hour,

Struggle and suffer... and grow still at last;

Who hears untouched the ceaseless, cosmic groan

Wrung from his creatures’ tortured lips alway;

He will not hear or heed! What need to pray?

There is no hand to help. We stand alone.

Father, forgive! I know not what I say,

Frenzied, tortured, torn on the rack of pain;

Teach these pain-writhen lips once more to pray —

Help me to trust again!