If I were a woman of old, What prayers I would pray for you, dear;
My pitiful tribute behold— Not a prayer, but a tear.
The pitiless order of things, Whose laws we may change not nor break,
Alone I could face it—it wrings My heart for your sake.
If I were a woman of old, What prayers I would pray for you, dear;
My pitiful tribute behold— Not a prayer, but a tear.
The pitiless order of things, Whose laws we may change not nor break,
Alone I could face it—it wrings My heart for your sake.