Matter For Gratitude poem – Ambrose Bierce poems | Poems and Poetry

Be pleased, O Lord, to take a people’s thanks

That Thine avenging sword has spared our ranks-

That Thou hast parted from our lips the cup

And forced our neighbors’ lips to drink it up.

Father of Mercies, with a heart contrite

We thank Thee that Thou goest south to smite,

And sparest San Francisco’s loins, to crack

Thy lash on Hermosillo’s bleeding back-

That o’er our homes Thine awful angel spread

His wings in vain, and Guaymas weeps instead.

We praise Thee, God, that Yellow Fever here

His horrid banner has not dared to rear,

Consumption’s jurisdiction to contest,

Her dagger deep in every second breast!

Catarrh and Asthma and Congestive Chill

Attest Thy bounty and perform Thy will.

These native messengers obey Thy call-

They summon singly, but they summon all.

Not, as in Mexico’s impested clime,

Can Yellow Jack commit recurring crime.

We thank Thee that Thou killest all the time.

Thy tender mercies, Father, never end:

Upon all heads Thy blessings still descend,

Though their forms vary. Here the sown seeds yield

Abundant grain that whitens all the field-

There the smit corn stands barren on the plain,

Thrift reaps the straw and Famine gleans in vain.

Here the fat priest to the contented king

Points out the contrast and the people sing-

There mothers eat their offspring. Well, at least

Thou hast provided offspring for the feast.

An earthquake here rolls harmless through the land,

And Thou art good because the chimneys stand-

There templed cities sink into the sea,

And damp survivors, howling as they flee,

Skip to the hills and hold a celebration

In honor of Thy wise discrimination.

O God, forgive them all, from Stoneman down,

Thy smile who construe and expound Thy frown,

And fall with saintly grace upon their knees

To render thanks when Thou dost only sneeze.