Father, this bitter cup, and if it be
Thy will that I should drink it, so I shall;
Much as our Master, nailed upon the tree
Fulfilled Thy will, vague, incontestable;
Arcane Thy will, dear Lord, to mortal men
So hard to understand, to comprehend,
So hard to face high heaven's standard when
We are but low, or all to lowness tend.
The menial world, dear Lord, is but a proof
Of our great lack of faith, our daily bread
But come by bitterly, our soul aloof
From these harsh meager tasks whereby we're fed
In body, while the soul that we retain
Yearns for its freedom, "like a god in pain."