Snow from its cold, wave from its wet!
Ask less!
Brand.
Toss a babe overboard,
And beg the blessing of the Lord.
His Mother.
Ask something else: ask hunger, thirst,—
But not what all men deem the worst!
Brand.
If just that <g>worst</g> is asked in vain,
No other can His grace obtain.
His Mother.
A money-alms I will present you!
Brand.
<g>All?</g>
His Mother.
All! Son, will not <g>much</g> content you?
Brand.
Your guilt you never shall put by
Till you, like Job, in ashes die.
His Mother.
[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 <g>mine</g>!
My treasure, child in anguish born,
For thee my bleeding breast was torn;-
Home then, and weep as mothers weep
