Yet list! Another note
Blends with the holy song our Mother sings,
And, high above the harp’s exultant strings,
Clear, trumpet-like doth float.
He comes to judge the world;
To garner up his wheat, to purge his floor,
While into flames of fire for evermore
The worthless chaff is hurled.
Lord! we would put aside
The gauds and baubles of this mortal life—