They slander You, ancient Master of Time, who say that Your delight is to scatter Ruin far and wide in mere wantonness of might. For not a leaf that falls before Your care-filled eyes, that by Your will shalt not become untold brighter things.
Your passage o`er the battlefield where the Dead lie stiff and stark, where naught is heard save the vultures scream and the gaunt wolves` famished bark; still You caused the gold grain to spring from the blood-enriched clay, and the waving corn-tops seem to dance to the rustic`s merry lay.
Do You not raze the lordly palace to ruins on the ground, beckoning the screech of dismal Owl where once a Harp was sound? Yet `twas that selfsame spot that You cover with the dwellings of the poor, a thousand happy hearts now cherish what one had usurped before.
O truly Your desires have lain many a praised one low; and for the brave and beautiful, caused many a tear to flow – but always after the dark of grief, the grateful ones proclaim that by Thy loving-kindness all tears are wiped away.