To fall in the sod where we die.
If thou, God, omnipotent being,
Can pierce the prison’s pale gloom;
And growest not sick of the seeing,
This charnel, this foul-reeking tomb?
If Thy hand stretch not forth in its anger,
To smite this damn den of despair,
Whose evil is rampant, and languor
Is lord of the poisonous lair.
Then God, take Ye back your creation,