TO TIRZAH

Whate'er is born of mortal birth Must be consumed with the earth, To rise from generation free: Then what have I to do with thee? The sexes sprang from shame and pride, Blown in the morn, in evening died; But mercy changed death into sleep; The sexes rose to work and weep.

Thou, mother of my mortal part, With cruelty didst mould my heart, And with false self-deceiving tears Didst bind my nostrils, eyes, and ears,

Didst close my tongue in senseless clay, And me to mortal life betray. The death of Jesus set me free: Then what have I to do with thee?