Zero-Hour Meditations

Now that the days of peace depart,
Now that the locusts scourge the land,
The bullet rushing to my heart
Is hurled, or halted, by Thy hand.

To none of all Thy creatures, none,
Thy patience and compassion move
As to this little willful one
Thou dost so curiously love.

This is the hour myself may see
(Where men are cruel, muddled, blind)
Thy fierce inflexibility
Cold as their hearts, but far more kind.