Much wonder I--here long low-laid - <br /> That this dead wall should be <br />Betwixt the Maker and the made, <br /> Between Thyself and me! <br /> <br />For, say one puts a child to nurse, <br /> He eyes it now and then <br />To know if better 'tis, or worse, <br /> And if it mourn, and when. <br /> <br />But Thou, Lord, giv'st us men our clay <br /> In helpless bondage thus <br />To Time and Chance, and seem'st straightway <br /> To think no more of us! <br /> <br />That some disaster cleft Thy scheme <br /> And tore us wide apart, <br />So that no cry can cross, I deem; <br /> For Thou art mild of heart, <br /> <br />And would'st not shape and shut us in <br /> Where voice can not he heard: <br />'Tis plain Thou meant'st that we should win <br /> Thy succour by a word. <br /> <br />Might but Thy sense flash down the skies <br /> Like man's from clime to clime, <br />Thou would'st not let me agonize <br /> Through my remaining time; <br /> <br />But, seeing how much Thy creatures bear - <br /> Lame, starved, or maimed, or blind - <br />Thou'dst heal the ills with quickest care <br /> Of me and all my kind. <br /> <br />Then, since Thou mak'st not these things be, <br /> But these things dost not know, <br />I'll praise Thee as were shown to me <br /> The mercies Thou would'st show!<br /><br />Thomas Hardy<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-bedridden-peasant-to-an-unknown-god/
