His holy pen would oft, methinks, repair
To Calvary’s shade or to the olive grove,
And, deep within the Wounded Side, would seek
The living flame, as strong as death, which breathes
In each dear line. Methinks he still doth speak,
And with celestial sweetness still bequeathes
His dying legacy of love; his meek
And gentle lessons in the soul inwreathes
Like flowers, the garden of the Spouse to grace.
O zeal inflamed and generous! No rest