Page:Ballads of battle (IA balladsofbattle00leejiala).pdf/85

My hands are clawed to clutch and keep;
My eyes grow heavy unto sleep,
I crouch beneath a poor roof-tree,
I wake—and I am still with Thee.

I know that when I come to die,
My bones all strawed about shall lie;
The hand that fashioned shall annul
This cunning sculpture of my skull.

O Thou behind that outmost star,
Have mercy if Thy plans we mar,
For lo! we know not what we are!

I with my mouth must munch my food
Like uncouth creatures in the wood,
Yet from my lips what prayers arise
Alway to the unanswering skies!