They sing of thy approaching agony, Which thou so eagerly didst question of: It is the face of the Incarnate God Shall smite thee with that keen and subtle pain; And yet the memory which it leaves will be 720 A sovereign febrifuge to heal the wound; And yet withal it will the wound provoke, And aggravate and widen it the more.
SOUL
Thou speakest mysteries; still methinks I know To disengage the tangle of thy words: Yet rather would I hear thy angel voice, Than for myself be thy interpreter.
ANGEL
When then--if such thy lot--thou seest thy Judge, The sight of Him will kindle in thy heart, All tender, gracious, reverential thoughts. 730 Thou wilt be sick with love, and yearn for Him, And feel as though thou couldst but pity Him, That one so sweet should e'er have placed Himself At disadvantage such, as to be used So vilely by a being so vile as thee. There is a pleading in His pensive eyes Will pierce thee to the quick, and trouble thee. And thou wilt hate and loathe thyself; for, though Now sinless, thou wilt feel that thou hast sinned, As never thou didst feel; and wilt desire 740 To slink away, and hide thee from His sight And yet wilt have a longing aye to dwell Within the beauty of His countenance. And these two pains, so counter and so keen,-- The longing for Him, when thou seest Him not; The shame of self at thought of seeing Him,-- Will be thy veriest, sharpest purgatory.
SOUL
My soul is in my hand: I have no fear,-- In His dear might prepared for weal or woe. But hark! a grand mysterious harmony: 750 It floods me, like the deep and solemn sound Of many waters.
ANGEL
We have gained the stairs Which rise towards the Presence-chamber; there A band of mighty Angels keep the way On either side, and hymn the Incarnate God.
ANGELS OF THE SACRED STAIR
Father, whose goodness none can know, but they Who see Thee face to face, By man hath come the infinite display Of Thy victorious grace; 760 But fallen man--the creature of a day-- Skills not that love to trace. It needs, to tell the triumph Thou hast wrought, An Angel's deathless fire, an Angel's reach of thought.
It needs that very Angel, who with awe, Amid the garden shade, The great Creator in His sickness saw, Soothed by a creature's aid, And agonised, as victim of the Law Which He Himself had made; 770 For who can praise Him in His depth and height, But he who saw Him reel amid that solitary fight?
SOUL
Hark! for the lintels of the presence-gate Are vibrating and echoing back the strain.
FOURTH CHOIR OF ANGELICALS
Praise to the Holiest in the height, And in the depth be praise: In all His words most wonderful; Most sure in all His ways!
The foe blasphemed the Holy Lord, As if He reckoned ill, 780 In that He placed His puppet man The frontier place to fill.
For even in his best estate, With amplest gifts endued, A sorry sentinel was he, A being of flesh and blood.
As though a thing, who for his help Must needs possess a wife, Could cope with those proud rebel hosts, Who had angelic life. 790
And when, by blandishment of Eve, That earth-born Adam fell, He shrieked in triumph, and he cried, "A sorry sentinel;
The Maker by His word is bound, Escape or cure is none; He must abandon to his doom, And slay His darling son."
ANGEL
And now the threshold, as we traverse it, Utters aloud its glad responsive chant. 800
FIFTH CHOIR OF ANGELICALS
Praise to the Holiest in the height, And in the depth be praise: In all His words most wonderful; Most sure in all His ways!