Poems (Blake)/All-Saints
ALL-SAINTS.
O blessed ones who rest at last Above all sense of grief and loss,Who mounted through the thorny past To find the crown above the cross,—
Forgotten now the prison bars, The fire, the steel, the martyr pain,The balm of love has healed the scars, And only joy and peace remain.
To-day we wreathe no single shrine, We call no holy name apart,But turn to all whom Love divine Has gathered up to His great heart.
Teach us, O spirits glorified, To climb the heights your feet have trod!Be still our help whate'er betide, All-Saints, to lead all souls to God.