That though I strove I could not move.But I could hear (and this unchainedThe raging beast in me) her painedAnd sorrow-riven voice ring outAbove the spirit's awful rout,Above the howling winds of doubt,How she knew Whom she traveled toWas judge of all that men might doTo such as she who trusted Him.Faith was a tower for her, grimAnd insurmountable; and deathShe said was only changing breathInto an essence fine and rare.Anger smote me and most despairSeeing her still bow down in prayer."Call on Him now," I mocked, "and tryYour faith against His deed, while IWith intent equally as sane,Searching a motive for this pain,Will hold a little stone on highAnd seek of it the reason why.Which, stone or God, will first reply?Why? Hear me ask it. He was youngAnd beautiful. Why was he flungLike common dirt to death? Why, stone,Must he of all the earth atoneFor what? The dirt God used was homely
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