Blown back by the sweet wavering air.
The bishop, knocking at the door,
The deacon answering from within,
"Lift up your heads, ye gates, be sure
The King of Glory shall come in"—
The bishop passed in with the choir.
Thank God for this—our soul's desire,
Our altar, meet for heaven's fire!
The bishop, kneeling in his place
Where our bright windows made day dim,