I feel the grip of death’s cold hand.
Jeremiah
Nay, Mother, God’s purpose with us is plain.
How can you think he will part us anew?
No more am I froward. Your child once again,
I am sent back by him for a fresh life with you.
Were it otherwise, say to me why should I be
Unclouded by visions, from dreaming set free?
The Mother
Do you dream no longer?