That faith is thine that has been all the length
Of centuries past, that shall be centuries o’er;
And on thy bosom writ I read—Amor.
VIII.
Each letter seeming with a ruddy hue—
Won from His Passion who is Perfect Love—
To glow the whiteness of thy robe above,
Thy own heart staining red thy raiment through.
What though thy hands are fettered as they lift
The blessing of the cross? They still can guide,