The Bedridden Peasant

To An Unknowing 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!