Thy person, thy soul, thy most beautiful form,
Thine office, thy name, thy most singular grace—
God hath made for them, Mother, a world by itself,
A shrine all alone, a most worshipful place.
Mid the blaze of those fires, eternal, unmade,
Thy Maker unspeakably makes thee his own;
The arms of the Three Uncreated, outstretched,
Round the Word’s mortal Mother in rapture are thrown.
Thy sinless conception, thy jubilant birth,
Thy crib and thy cross, thine assumption and crown,