Descend, and solve by that descent |
| This mystery of life; |
| Where good and ill, together blent, |
| Wage an undying strife. |
For rivers twain are gushing still, |
| And pour a mingled flood; |
| Good in the very depths of ill, |
| Ill in the heart of good. |
The last are first, the first are last, |
| As angel eyes behold; |
| These from the sheep-cote sternly cast, |
| Those welcomed to the fold. {308} |
No Christian home, no pastor's eye, |
| No preacher's vocal zeal, |
| Moved Thy dear Martyr to defy |
| The prison and the wheel. |
Forth from the heathen ranks she stept, |
| The forfeit crown to claim |
| Of Christian souls who had not kept |
| Their birthright and their name. |
Grace form'd her out of sinful dust; |
| She knelt a soul defiled, |
| She rose in all the faith, and trust, |
| And sweetness of a child. |
And in the freshness of that love |
| She preach'd, by word and deed, |
| The mysteries of the world above, |
| Her new-found, glorious creed. |
And running, in a little hour, |
| Of life the course complete, |
| She reach'd the Throne of endless power; |
| And sits at Jesu's feet. {309} |
Her spirit there, her body here, |
| Make one the earth and sky; |
| We use her name, we touch her bier, |
| We know her God is nigh. |
Praise to the Father, as is meet, |
| Praise to the Only Son, |
| Praise to the Holy Paraclete |
| While endless ages run. |
The Oratory.
1856. |