There is no embalming so sweet to Me,
As to dwell, My well-beloved, in thee.
The soul saith—
Lord, take me home to Thy palace fair,
So will I ever anoint Thee there.
“I will. But My plighted troth saith, ‘Wait;’
And My love saith, ‘Work to-day;’
My meekness saith, ‘Be of low estate;’
And My longing, ‘Watch and pray;’
My shame and sorrow say, ‘Bear My cross;’