The Bedridden Peasant to an Unknown 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!

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Thomas Hardy

Thomas Hardy, was a Scottish Minister, Moderator of the General Assembly of the Church of Scotland and Professor of Eccesiastical History at Edinburgh University. more…

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"The Bedridden Peasant to an Unknown God" Poetry.net. STANDS4 LLC, 2019. Web. 20 Sep. 2019. <https://www.poetry.net/poem/36480/the-bedridden-peasant-to-an-unknown-god>.

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