Page:Poems and ballads (IA poemsballads00swinrich).pdf/288

 Behold, Lord, this child is grown Within me between bone and bone To make me mother of a son, Made of my body with strong moan; There shall not be another one That shall be made hereof.

Lord God, alas, what shall I sain? Lo, thou art as an hundred men Both to break and build again: The wild ways thou makest plain, Thine hands hold the hail and rain, And thy fingers both grape and grain; Of their largess we be all well fain, And of their great pity: The sun thou madest of good gold, Of clean silver the moon cold, All the great stars thou hast told As thy cattle in thy fold Every one by his name of old; Wind and water thou hast in hold, Both the land and the long sea; Both the green sea and the land, Lord God, thou hast in hand, Both white water and grey sand; Upon thy right or thy left hand There is no man that may stand;