THE BEDRIDDEN PEASANT

Much wonder I — here long low-laid -

That this dead wall should be

Betwixt the Maker and the made,

Between Thyself and me!

For, say one puts a child to nurse,

He eyes it now and then

To know if better‘ tis, or worse,

And if it mourn, and when.

But Thou, Lord, giv'st us men our clay

In helpless bondage thus

To Time and Chance, and seem'st straightway

To think no more of us!

That some disaster cleft Thy scheme

And 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 in

Where voice can not he heard:

‘ Tis plain Thou meant'st that we should win

Thy succour by a word.

Might but Thy sense flash down the skies

Like man's from clime to clime,

Thou would'st not let me agonize

Through my remaining time;

But, seeing how much Thy creatures bear -

Lame, starved, or maimed, or blind -

Thou'dst heal the ills with quickest care

Of 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 me

The mercies Thou would'st show!