Dunstaple's Bent Hand
The damp wind melancholy moans
Informing Dunstaple's bent hand.
How should we be so full of woe
In such a green and pleasant land?
Why, Eastwards the impassive sun
Sees flocks diminish in the sand,
Where one more precious than the rest
Was slaughtered at our harsh command.
O sweet lamb, born in poverty
Beyond what we can understand,
How should we celebrate your birth,
Escaping from the brash and bland,
How worthily receive your gifts
Cascading from your pierced hand?
O lamb, whose cry in Bethlehem
Promised to mend so great a tear;
O lamb, who died yet comforts me,
Accept this sad and wild prayer
That in between the two extremes
Of celebration and despair
I will attain a middle way,
Knowing that I will find you there.