Then spake the soul in joyful fear—
“O blessed Herald, so might it be!
For I am faithless, guilty, vile,
In Him alone is there rest for me.
For me is no home beneath the skies,
No summer land, and no resting-place,
But the marvellous pity of His eyes,
And the sweetness of His Face;
And when all around the lights are dim,
The heart that sorroweth turns to Him.”