Like a hurt child. Its wail is in my bones.
Oh, God in heaven, it calls, why hast Thou sent me
To this blind night, and will that I be torn?
I do bleat softly when I may because
No answer can be ever understood.
I huddle in the dark against the cold,
And all that comfort me are my own tears.
But I would cry so loud if I could cry
That they would hear me over the far stars,
And they would ask for mercy of the wolf.
Yet this cry in my bones is all that I can cry.
I can remember when my fleece was white,
And I was warm and sheltered over me,
And I slept sweetly, lying with the flock.
But now my fleece is torn, and I am sick,
And I am in the icy wind of night,
And the wolf howls. Its cry is not so deep
As my own cry. I call and call again
To the night, but I am still. For what I am,
For such a one, there is no remedy,
And my poor body is but meat to feed
A hungering wolf. He cannot understand
Why a lamb weeps. Oh, pity it is not Thou!