XVII
by Alfred, Lord Tennyson
· (no date)
Published 01/07/1880
Part of Despair
What! I should call on that Infinite Love that has served us so well?
Infinite cruelty rather that made everlasting Hell,
Made us, foreknew us, foredoom'd us, and does what he will with his own;
Better our dead brute mother who never has heard us groan!