Miserere

Our God in Heaven! Were it not for Thee, We could go down to die as to a feast Spread on the grey floor of mine host, the Sea,— We could die out contented then, at least, A smile on ev’n our never-smiling lips, Dreaming of songs and splendours on sunk ships,— But by Thy Majesty, ah, what are we? Our God in Heaven! Is there such a one, Or is that promise but the trick of Death To cheat us of the glory we have won, To rob of triumph this our parting breath,— And does the end come with the heart’s last beat And does the sea take everything, complete?— No man doth know of this, for no man saith. But Thou, who knowst how mutable is life, Wouldst thou condemn to everlasting fire Us who so oft have felt the thrill of strife Smother with ashes fall’n from passion’s pyre The saving spark of pity’s faint appeal?— Dost thou not know the shame that we must feel, Enslaved by him that was our slave, Desire? We are so tired!... surely Thou dost know (Granting that Thou art God, for argument) How weary are the windings and how slow The steps whereby our final course is bent, How widely chill the days, how bleak the gloom? Surely there is no need for other doom?— Ah, Fate’s avenging hand should be content. If Thou art God, on utter mercy throned Above the splendour of the star-hung sky, Waste not Thy pity on the half-condoned Whose weakling sins have never reached on high; But lay Thy hand on each sin-whitened head And grant to us of Peace abandonéd Not Hell, but only slumber, when we die.