With what its true import must be,"Upon our knees and let the worst,Let me the sinfullest kneel first;O lovely Head to dust brought lowMore times than we can ever knowWhose small regard, dust-ridden eye,Behold Your doom, yet doubt You die;O Form immaculately born,Betrayed a thousand times each morn,As many times each night denied,Surrendered, tortured, crucified!Now have we seen beyond degreeThat love which has no boundary;Our eyes have looked on Calvary."
No sound then in the sacred gloomThat blessed the shrine that was our roomExcept the steady rise of praiseTo Him who shapes all nights and daysInto one final burst of sun;Though with the praise some tears must runIn pity of the King's dear breathThat ransomed one of us from death.
The days are mellow for us now;We reap full fields; the heavy bough
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