X.

Awake, alive to pain! The first steel gleam of morn Stabs deep the heart I thought had shrunk to dust, The love I prayed might die to loveless scorn Awakes and cries ... Ah, God, how is it just A fault so slight such meed of pain should pay, That one mad word in pride and anger spoken Should leave two lives forever crushed and broken, Should plait a scourge to lash my soul for aye?

How can a just God see men suffer thus?— Unheedful of the cosmic cry of pain, Unmoved by all the pangs that torture us, Knowing our prayers and tears alike are vain— Like to a wanton boy who feels no thrill Of pity for the weak his strength holds thrall, Who pins a helpless butterfly against a wall, Watching the bright wings flutter and grow still.

We are the sport of some malignant Power Who nails us to our crosses, hard and fast, Who sees us flutter for a little hour, Struggle and suffer ... and grow still at last; Who hears untouched the ceaseless, cosmic groan Wrung from his creatures' tortured lips alway; He will not hear or heed! What need to pray? There is no hand to help. We stand alone.

Father, forgive! I know not what I say, Frenzied, tortured, torn on the rack of pain; Teach these pain-writhen lips once more to pray— Help me to trust again!