THE COMPLAINT OF THE AFFLICTED CHURCH.
ANONYMOUS.
Our hearts, O Lord, to Thee look up,
Our cries and groans implore Thine aid:
Behold what clouds our welkin overshade,
And mark how bitter is our cup.
Take cognisance of all our ills,
And draw us from the frightful precipice,
Before we sink down in the abyss,
And death our clamorous voices stills.
Our poor tribes fugitive afar,
Thine altars everywhere o'erthrown,
Thy torches quenched, Thy flocks dispersed, to moan
In deserts, and without a star;
Here, consciences no longer free,
There, cherished feelings wronged, and hearts in fears,
And eyes for ever bathed in tears,
All, all, call dolefully on Thee.
Our girls in some sad convent pent,
Our workmen stretched on dungeon-floor,
Our best as martyrs deluged in their gore,
Our preachers to the galleys sent,
Our sick, neglected, left to die,
Our dying who the sacraments have not,
Our dead on shambles cast to rot,
Appeal to Thee: look down from high.
