The Bedridden Peasant to an Unknown God

 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!

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