Thyself Love, Beauty, Truth, and seeing these
In all, through all, from angel’s anthem tone
To feeblest pulsing in poor human heart:—
Not all thy earth-love mission, thy deep prayers
On Olivet, and all thy weary grief
Until Gethsemane beheld thee bleed
At every pore, o’er faith betrayed, and love
That wearied, though its watch was but an hour—
Thy breaking bread to hungry lips—thine eye
That pitied every shape of wo—thy tears