Of meek humility her stole is spun,
Her robe is white as snow,
For unto Him, the High and Holy One,
She fain would go.
And thus she passeth through the forest dim,
Where holy people dwell,
And day and night, with dance and song and hymn,
Their gladness tell;
With solemn dance of praise that knows no end,
Hands linked with other hands of ancient years;