  THOU who know'st all the sorrows of this earth— I pray Thee, ponder, ere again Thou turn Thine hour-glass over again, since one sole birth, To poor clay-cold humanity, makes yearn A heart at passion with life's endless coil. Thou givest thyself too strait a room therein. For so divine a tree too poor a soil. For so great agony what small peace to win. Cast from that Ark of Heaven which is Thy home The raven of hell may wander without fear; But sadly wings the dove o'er floods to roam, Nought but one tender sprig his eyes to cheer. Nay, Lord, I speak in parables. But see! 'Tis stricken Man in Men that pleads with Thee.
|
|
