"Lord!"

 
Lord!

...
 

Your gale and tempest smite our land,

 

everything's at stake;

Even hills and mountains anguish, 

 

shaking with your quake!

The heavens break like wounds awide

and shower earth with salt!

No more maize and no more rye;

no more wheat nor malt...

And woman veils her chalice … 

 

and curses it with drought, 

 

and men no longer seek her love

to still his angst and doubt.

All the flowers died from age

and wombs dried up with sand; 

 

shall children breathe anew tomorrow

bless'd by heaven's hand? 

 

Our labour here's eternal, 

 

the reward but short and brief; 

 

will the cracking of our bones 

 

bear some remedy for grief? 

 

Will the breaking chains of iron slaves

cause a roar aloud,

or shall penance be fulfilled, with wrath, 

 

thund'ring from some cloud?