366. ‘O Sovereign Lord, Thou Lover of Men’s Souls!’

THOU hope of all Humanity,

What of all this that meets the sight,

The blood, the tears, the misery?

Raiment of needlework outspread

Wrought curiously with golden thread,

That my bride may be fitly adorned to-night.

But, oh thou Bridegroom of the Soul,

What of the sounds, the sounds of fear,

The groans of men, the bells that toll?

Thou hearest the minstrels tune their lutes,

Thou hearest the young men try their flutes

For the feast of the marriage that draweth near.

Yet, oh thou Bridegroom of the Soul,

What of the mind’s captivity?

What of the spirit’s doubt and dole?

Out of the ebony halls of night,

Aloes, cassia, myrrh, delight,

The bride in her palace of ivory.

Then, oh thou Bridegroom of the Soul,

What of the songs from woods new-clothed,

The laughing flowers, the sunlit knoll?

My footsteps that follow along the shore,

My fingers about the latch and door,

My face at the window of my betrothed.