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!