Of all Thy makings that I grow into likeness of
Why chosest Thou the clod dumb and dull,
Or like bare mountain rock crude and rough 
Adamantly immobile by a muteness’ spell.

No grove upon wide earth held a single flower
Radiantly cast with limbs of hued brilliance 
To serve as prime mould my being to render,
Yet I am as if an issue of earth’s reluctance.

What part this O Playwright that demands
Me unarmed upon this battlefield of life,
Lines I have none save this ode to silence
That plays in my mind with futility rife.

Thy roads are endless and the fates relentless,
Ease our passage with a reprieve of Thy face!