Quia Multum Amavit

Am I not he that hath made thee and begotten thee, I, God, the spirit of man? Wherefore now these eighteen years hast thou forgotten me, From whom thy life began? Thy life-blood and thy life-breath and thy beauty, Thy might of hands and feet, Thy soul made strong for divinity of duty And service which was sweet. Through the red sea brimmed with blood didst thou not follow me, As one that walks in trance? Was the storm strong to break or the sea to swallow thee, When thou wast free and France? I am Freedom, God and man, O France, that plead with thee; How long now shall I plead? Was I not with thee in travail, and in need with thee, Thy sore travail and need? Thou wast fairest and first of my virgin-vested daughters, Fairest and foremost thou; And thy breast was white, though thy hands were red with slaughters, Thy breast, a harlot's now.