Burns sweet before Our Lord: love’s last slow grain
Rich as the first: for lo, the censer’s broken;
And all my soul foreruns her call to climb
Out of this ruin. Lest I slip, or cry,
O visible form of light, dear Didymus!
Turn now: give me thy hand.
Burns sweet before Our Lord: love’s last slow grain
Rich as the first: for lo, the censer’s broken;
And all my soul foreruns her call to climb
Out of this ruin. Lest I slip, or cry,
O visible form of light, dear Didymus!
Turn now: give me thy hand.