Classic Poem

Did I not ask for him, my dear, my own,
All goodly things of God?
I thought that sand of gold must needs be spread
Upon the path he trod.

I asked for joy and glory as his right,
With arrogance of love.
God did not give them to him here below:
Perhaps He will, above.

O there was nothing good I did not name
In asking gifts for him,
And now all prayers have dwindled down to one,
Whispered with eyes grown dim—

That last short, humble prayer left us to say,
Bent 'neath the scourging rod:
“O grant his coming pains of death be brief,—
An easy passing, God!”