Page:The collected works of Henrik Ibsen (Heinemann Volume 3).djvu/93

 Snow from its cold, wave from its wet! Ask less!

Toss a babe overboard, And beg the blessing of the Lord.

Ask something else: ask hunger, thirst,— But not what all men deem the worst!

If just that worst is asked in vain, No other can His grace obtain.

A money-alms I will present you!

All?

All! Son, will not much content you?

Your guilt you never shall put by Till you, like Job, in ashes die.

[Wringing her hands.]

My life destroy'd, my soul denied, My goods soon scatter'd far and wide! Home then, and in these fond arms twine All that I still can say is mine! My treasure, child in anguish born, For thee my bleeding breast was torn;- Home then, and weep as mothers weep