Soft, through the rich illumined panes,
All down the aisle the sunlight rains,
And sets in red and purple stains.
And mid this glory from the skies,
We hear the organ-voice arise.
Its wings the waking spirit tries:
It flutters, but it cannot soar.
Oh! heavenly music, let us pour
Our woes, our joys, in thee once more.
All wilt thou take. Thou mak'st no choice.
Hearts that complain, hearts that rejoice,
Find thee their all-revealing voice.
All, all the soul's unuttered things
Thou bearest on thy mighty wings
Up, up until the arched roof rings:
Now soft — as when, for Israel's king,
Young David swept his sweet harpstring;
Now loud — as angels antheming.
Oh! tell what myriad heads are bent.
Oh! tell what myriad hearts repent.
He will look down: He will relent.
It dies. The last low strain departs.
With deep "Amen" the warm tear starts.
The peace of Eden fills our hearts.
