Classic Poem

Have mercy upon me, O Trinity who brought sight to the eye of the blind man; to make grass grow through the rock is more difficult, O God — do not, O Creator, allow me to be without children. You put blossom through the top of the tree, O great Father (unhappy the man who does not understand); how could it be harder for you to give me children than to bring blossom through the top of these same trees, O Creator? An oak-tree from an acorn, an ear of corn from the young blade, a slender, young blade of corn coming from a grain (they are bright, beautiful miracles) are not easier for you than to grant the children that see them. A salmon from every roecorn, a bird from an egg (it is not I that does not understand) and hazel-nuts through the nutshell; how would it be more difficult to you, O Creator, to grant children to my wife? You gave me beautiful children to deceive me, to see them flourish — little the profit; have mercy upon me, O God; behold me, O Lord, without children. An empty household for an active man without a single offspring of children is a great woe; give me even a single child in my house, O holy Mary, pure virgin. Folk without progeny, though they are prosperous people, are not heard of except as long as they live; though beauty without good fortune is fine, it is a grain of seed with no fruit through it. There is no lasting hell except being childless — who does not consider it? — the people who leave behind no children you gave, are like a bare stone among the grass of a wasteland. O Trinity, O three Maries, let not the hearth of my house be extinguished; give me heaven before every request since it is to be preferred, O six proving letters of knowledge. O Creator, you who freeze the waves of the sea, look upon my sorry plight; O king who floods and ebbs, put to right the matter that keeps my joy from me. O Trinity, come to my assistance, O salmon of knowledge upon whom there is no spot; not fitting in slumber, O Creator, are my children like the lights of a candle's aura. We are a pair complaining to you because we are without a single child, O king of the saints; may your love touch our children, O king of heaven, and us as well. Put into my home, O Lord of heaven, anyone suitable for it to be my child, O living nut whom decay has not touched, O dwelling of the true salmon of knowledge. You took, O master of the universe, my children from me while they drank their first milk; the ability to produce children would be easier for someone — you made heaven first. It was you that created the world, both hard rock and soft earth; not less your power, no greater your difficulty in shaping nuts or making the world. You created without straw, without welding-liquid Adam from earth and water; you made, O expert craftsman of all, Eve by plucking her from his smooth side. You came at your mighty conception into the womb of a maiden in the rath of the ditches; in order to save everyone from torment you yourself made a human of yourself. It was you who on our behalf gave over your body into a gloomy rock — a matter without deceit — it was you who went onto the cross to save us and into the rock of the deep, dark cave. You it was after rising in the earth that plundered the house of hell of appalling aspect; (your blood is healing for sick blood) you sat upon the right hand of God. It is you that will burn the level expanse of the earth so that every smooth stone will be turned to ashes; O branch of all the wood most plentiful in nuts, it is you that will come to meet every man. You will be in eternal life, O craftsman of all who needs nothing; wide is your net, O son of Mary; what effort is it to you to shape a human? You are the wright that knows no toil nor labour, O you who make straight every crooked matter; it was not easier to snuff them out like a candle-flame, O Creator, than to let my children live. No easier was it to make the dark night which you divide from the bright day; how would it be harder than to give the blind man sight, to give me children, O Creator of the elements? Not easier to you, O Jesus, was it to bring snow and sun in one day than to give me my reward; to cover the ground under us so that the sun could suck up the snow is a miracle. O king of heaven, you took my only son; see yourself that it was not fitting for you; you thrust a dart right across my heart, O craftsman who put props under the sun. Who are entitled to lament the death of their children, O visage like the rose? Though the request I seek be a good one, if their death is a good thing, I suffer still. Of my two requests, O king of heaven, heaven is the first thing I ask; if you desire it, you need merely say it: That I should have a son, O God, as reward for my poem. Get for me, O mother Mary, a son before I depart this world; O womb in which the manhood of God became flesh, no young one has stayed in my house. Pray for me, O Bridget after whom I was baptized, that my children should live; do not let your poet into disrespect, O faithful sweetheart of God.