Lament XVII

God hath laid his hand on me:     He hath taken all my glee,     And my spirit's emptied cup     Soon must give its life-blood up.     If the sun doth wake and rise,     If it sink in gilded skies,     All alike my heart doth ache,     Comfort it can never take.     From my eyelids there do flow     Tears, and I must weep e'en so     Ever, ever. Lord of Light,     Who can hide him from thy sight!     Though we shun the stormy sea,     Though from war's affray we flee,     Yet misfortune shows her face     Howsoe'er concealed our place.     Mine a life so far from fame     Few there were could know my name;     Evil hap and jealousy     Had no way of harming me.     But the Lord, who doth disdain     Flimsy safeguards raised by man,     Struck a blow more swift and sure     In that I was more secure.     Poor philosophy, so late     Of its power wont to prate,     Showeth its incompetence     Now that joy proceedeth hence.     Sometimes still it strives to prove     Heavy care it can remove;     But its little weight doth fail     To raise sorrow in the scale.     Idle is the foolish claim     Harm can have another name:     He who laughs when he is sad,     I should say was only mad.     Him who tries to prove our tears     Trifles, I will lend mine ears;     But my sorrow he thereby     Doth not check, but magnify.     Choice I have none, I must needs     Weep if all my spirit bleeds.     Calling it a graceless part     Only stabs anew my heart.     All such medicine, dear Lord,     Is another, sharper sword.     Who my healing would insure     Will seek out a gentler cure.     Let my tears prolong their flow.     Wisdom, I most truly know,     Hath no power to console:     Only God can make me whole.