Shall His stricken children find,
Babes, that humbly understand,
To have felt their Father's hand
Gives them not a right to weep.—
Seest thou now of tears a sign?
Brand.
[Presses her to him a moment.]
Child, make light: that work is thine. Agnes.
[Smiles sadly.]
Thou thy greater Church shalt rear: Oh—but end ere Spring is here! [Goes.
Brand.
Willing in her torments still,
Willing at the martyr's stake;
Flesh may flag and spirit break,
But unbroken in her Will.
Lord, to her poor strength add Thine;—
Be the cruel task not mine
At Thy bidding to unchain
Angry vultures of the Law,
Swift to swoop with ravening maw
And her heart's warm blood to drain!
I have strength to stand the strain.
Twofold agony let me bear,—
But be merciful to her!
A knock at the outer door. The Mayor enters.
The Mayor.
A beaten man, I seek your door.
