Of all the themes in Thy dramatic empire
Thou hath cast me in a cruel satire,
The opening act of each new day
Brings but a fresh irony in my way.

What drought hath Thee possessed
That I am by this paucity limited?
Thy pen scripting the fate of stars
For me sputters to halt in reluctance?

Brew from my aches a better ink
Or make of my tears a bitter drink,
But write on bosom’s empty page
A better part for my soul to engage.

As man Thou said, to Thy command I consented,
Surely this alone is not all Thou intended.