“The Holy City, New Jerusalem.”
Jerusalem is built of gold,
Of crystal, pearl, and gem:
Oh fair thy lustres manifold,
Thou fair Jerusalem!
Thy citizens who walk in white
Have nought to do with day or night,
And drink the river of delight.
Jerusalem makes melody
For simple joy of heart;
An organ of full compass she,
One-tuned thro’ every part:
While not to day or night belong
Her matins and her evensong,
The one thanksgiving of her throng.
Jerusalem a garden is,
A garden of delight;
Leaf, flower, and fruit make fair her trees,
Which see not day or night:
Beside her River clear and calm
The Tree of Life grows with the Palm,
For triumph and for food and balm.
Jerusalem, where song nor gem
Nor fruit nor waters cease,
God bring us to Jerusalem,
God bring us home in peace;
The strong who stand, the weak who fall,
The first and last, the great and small,
Home one by one, home one and all.
When wickedness is broken as a tree
Paradise comes to light, ah holy land!
Whence death has vanished like a shifting sand,
And barrenness is banished with the sea.
Its bulwarks are salvation fully manned,
All gems it hath for glad variety,
And pearls for pureness radiant glimmeringly,
And gold for grandeur where all good is grand.
An inner ring of saints meets linked above,
And linked of angels is an outer ring;
For voice of waters or for thunders’ voice
Lo! harps and songs wherewith all saints rejoice,
And all the trembling there of any string
Is but a trembling of enraptured love.
Jerusalem of fire
And gold and pearl and gem,
Saints flock to fill thy choir,
Jerusalem.
Lo, thrones thou hast for them;
Desirous they desire
Thy harp, thy diadem,
Thy bridal white attire,
A palm-branch from thy stem:
Thy holiness their hire,
Jerusalem.
“She shall be brought unto the King.”
The King’s Daughter is all glorious within,
Her clothing of wrought gold sets forth her bliss;
Where the endless choruses of heaven begin
The King’s Daughter is;
Perfect her notes in the perfect harmonies;
With tears wiped away, no conscience of sin,
Loss forgotten and sorrowful memories;
Alight with Cherubin, afire with Seraphin,
Lily for pureness, rose for charities,
With joy won and with joy evermore to win,
The King’s Daughter is.
Who is this that cometh up not alone
From the fiery-flying-serpent wilderness,
Leaning upon her own Beloved One:
Who is this?
Lo, the King of kings’ daughter, a high princess,
Going home as bride to her Husband’s Throne,
Virgin queen in perfected loveliness.
Her eyes a dove’s eyes and her voice a dove’s moan,
She shows like a full moon for heavenliness:
Eager saints and angels ask in heaven’s zone,
Who is this?
Who sits with the King in His Throne?
Not a slave but a Bride,
With this King of all Greatness and Grace
Who reigns not alone;
His Glory her glory, where glorious she glows at His side
Who sits with the King in His Throne.
She came from dim uttermost depths which no Angel hath known,
Leviathan’s whirlpool and Dragon’s dominion worldwide,
From the frost or the fire to Paradisiacal zone.
Lo, she is fair as a dove, silvery, golden, dove-eyed:
Lo, Dragon laments and Death laments, for their prey is flown:
She dwells in the Vision of Peace, and her peace shall abide
Who sits with the King in His Throne.
Antipas.
Hidden from the darkness of our mortal sight,
Hidden in the Paradise of lovely light,
Hidden in God’s Presence, worshipped face to face,
Hidden in the sanctuary of Christ’s embrace.
Up, O Wills! to track him home among the bless’d;
Up, O Hearts! to know him in the joy of rest;
Where no darkness more shall hide him from our sight,
Where we shall be love with love, and light with light,
Worshipping our God together face to face,
Wishless in the sanctuary of Christ’s embrace.
“Beautiful for situation.”
A lovely city in a lovely land,
Whose citizens are lovely, and whose King
Is Very Love; to Whom all Angels sing;
To Whom all saints sing crowned, their sacred band
Saluting Love with palm-branch in their hand:
Thither all doves on gold or silver wing
Flock home thro’ agate windows glistering
Set wide, and where pearl gates wide open stand.
A bower of roses is not half so sweet,
A cave of diamonds doth not glitter so,
Nor Lebanon is fruitful set thereby:
And thither thou, beloved, and thither I
May set our heart and set our face and go,
Faint yet pursuing, home on tireless feet.
Lord, by what inconceivable dim road
Thou leadest man on footsore pilgrimage!
Weariness is his rest from stage to stage,
Brief halting-places are his sole abode.
Onward he fares thro’ rivers overflowed,
Thro’ deserts where all doleful creatures rage;
Onward from year to year, from age to age,
He groans and totters onward with his load.
Behold how inconceivable his way;
How tenfold inconceivable the goal,
His goal of hope deferred, his promised peace:
Yea, but behold him sitting down at ease,
Refreshed in body and refreshed in soul,
At rest from labour on the Sabbath Day.
“As cold waters to a thirsty soul, so is good
news from a far country.”
“Golden haired, lily white,
Will you pluck me lilies?
Or will you show me where they grow,
Show where the limpid rill is?
But is your hair of gold or light,
And is your foot of flake or fire,
And have you wings rolled up from sight
And songs to slake desire?”
“I pluck fresh flowers of Paradise,
Lilies and roses red,
A bending sceptre for my hand,
A crown to crown my head.
I sing my songs, I pluck my flowers
Sweet-scented from their fragrant trees;
I sing, we sing, amid the bowers
And gather palm-branches.”
“Is there a path to Heaven
My stumbling foot may tread?
And will you show that way to go,
That bower and blossom bed?”
“The path to Heaven is steep and straight
And scorched, but ends in shade of trees,
Where yet a while we sing and wait
And gather palm-branches.”
Cast down but not destroyed, chastened not slain:
Thy Saints have lived that life, but how can I?
I, who thro’ dread of death do daily die
By daily foretaste of an unfelt pain.
Lo, I depart who shall not come again;
Lo, as a shadow I am flitting by;
As a leaf trembling, as a wheel I fly,
While death flies faster and my flight is vain.
Chastened not slain, cast down but not destroyed:
If thus Thy Saints have struggled home to peace,
Why should not I take heart to be as they?
They too pent passions in a house of clay,
Fear and desire, and pangs and ecstasies;
Yea, thus they joyed who now are overjoyed.
Lift up thine eyes to seek the invisible:
Stir up thy heart to choose the still unseen:
Strain up thy hope in glad perpetual green
To scale the exceeding height where all saints dwell.
—Saints, is it well with you?—Yea, it is well.—
Where they have reaped, by faith kneel thou to glean:
Because they stooped so low to reap, they lean
Now over golden harps unspeakable.
—But thou purblind and deafened, knowest thou
Those glorious beauties unexperienced
By ear or eye or by heart hitherto?—
I know Whom I have trusted: wherefore now
All amiable, accessible tho’ fenced,
Golden Jerusalem floats full in view.
“Love is strong as Death.”
As flames that consume the mountains, as winds
that coerce the sea,
Thy men of renown show forth Thy might in
the clutch of death:
Down they go into silence, yet the Trump of the
Jubilee
Swells not Thy praise as swells it the breathless
pause of their breath.
What is the flame of their fire, if so I may catch
the flame;
What the strength of their strength, if also I may
wax strong?
The flaming fire of their strength is the love of
Jesu’s Name,
In Whom their death is life, their silence utters
a song.
“Let them rejoice in their beds.”
Crimson as the rubies, crimson as the roses,
Crimson as the sinking sun,
Singing on his crimsoned bed each saint reposes,
Fought his fight, his battle won;
Till the rosy east the day of days discloses,
All his work, save waiting, done.
Far above the stars, while underneath the daisies,
Resting, for his race is run,
Unto Thee his heart each quiet saint upraises,
God the Father, Spirit, Son;
Unto Thee his heart, unto Thee his praises,
O Lord God, the Three in One.
Slain in their high places: fallen on rest
Where the eternal peace lights up their faces,
In God’s sacred acre breast to breast:—
Slain in their high places.
From all tribes, all families, all races,
Gathered home together; east or west
Sending home its tale of gifts and graces.
Twine, oh twine, heaven’s amaranth for their crest,
Raise their praise while home their triumph paces;
Kings by their own King of kings confessed,
Slain in their high places.
“What hath God wrought!”
The shout of a King is among them. One day may I be
Of that perfect communion of lovers contented and free
In the land that is very far off, and far off from the sea.
The shout of the King is among them. One King and one song,
One thunder of manifold voices harmonious and strong,
One King and one love, and one shout of one worshipping throng.
“Before the throne, and before the Lamb.”
As the voice of many waters all saints sing as one,
As the voice of an unclouded thundering;
Unswayed by the changing moon and unswayed by the sun,
As the voice of many waters all saints sing.
Circling round the rainbow of their perfect ring,
Twelve thousand times twelve thousand voices in unison
Swell the triumph, swell the praise of Christ the King.
Where raiment is white of blood-steeped linen slowly spun,
Where crowns are golden of Love’s own largessing,
Where eternally the ecstasy is but begun,
As the voice of many waters all saints sing.
“He shall go no more out.”
Once within, within for evermore:
There the long beatitudes begin:
Overflows the still unwasting store,
Once within.
Left without are death and doubt and sin;
All man wrestled with and all he bore,
Man who saved his life, skin after skin.
Blow the trumpet-blast unheard before,
Shout the unheard-of shout for these who win,
These, who cast their crowns on Heaven’s high floor
Once within.
Yea, blessed and holy is he that hath part in
the First Resurrection!
We mark well his bulwarks, we set up his
tokens, we gaze, even we,
On this lustre of God and of Christ, this creature
of flawless perfection:
Yea, blessed and holy is he.
But what? an offscouring of earth, a wreck
from the turbulent sea,
A bloodstone unflinchingly hewn for the Temple’s
eternal erection,
One scattered and peeled, one sifted and chastened
and scourged and set free?
Yea, this is that worshipful stone of the Wise
Master Builder’s election,
Yea, this is that King and that Priest where all
Hallows bow down the knee,
Yea, this man set nigh to the Throne is Jonathan
of David’s delection,
Yea, blessed and holy is he.
The joy of Saints, like incense turned to fire
In golden censers, soars acceptable;
And high their heavenly hallelujahs swell
Desirous still with still-fulfilled desire.
Sweet thrill the harpstrings of the heavenly choir,
Most sweet their voice while love is all they tell;
Where love is all in all, and all is well
Because their work is love and love their hire.
All robed in white and all with palm in hand,
Crowns too they have of gold and thrones of gold;
The street is golden which their feet have trod,
Or on a sea of glass and fire they stand:
And none of them is young, and none is old,
Except as perfect by the Will of God.
What are these lovely ones, yea, what are these?
Lo, these are they who for pure love of Christ
Stripped off the trammels of soft silken ease,
Beggaring themselves betimes, to be sufficed
Throughout heaven’s one eternal day of peace:
By golden streets, thro’ gates of pearl unpriced,
They entered on the joys that will not cease,
And found again all firstfruits sacrificed.
And wherefore have you harps, and wherefore palms,
And wherefore crowns, O ye who walk in white?
Because our happy hearts are chanting psalms,
Endless Te Deum for the ended fight;
While thro’ the everlasting lapse of calms
We cast our crowns before the Lamb our Might.
“The General Assembly and Church of the Firstborn.”
Bring me to see, Lord, bring me yet to see
Those nations of Thy glory and Thy grace
Who splendid in Thy splendour worship Thee.
Light in all eyes, content in every face,
Raptures and voices one while manifold,
Love and are well-beloved the ransomed race:—
Great mitred priests, great kings in crowns of gold,
Patriarchs who head the army of their sons,
Matrons and mothers by their own extolled,
Wise and most harmless holy little ones,
Virgins who, making merry, lead the dance,
Full-breathed victorious racers from all runs,
Home-comers out of every change and chance,
Hermits restored to social neighbourhood,
Aspects which reproduce One Countenance,
Life-losers with their losses all made good,
All blessed hungry and athirst sufficed,
All who bore crosses round the Holy Rood,
Friends, brethren, sisters, of Lord Jesus Christ.
“Every one that is perfect shall be as his master.”
How can one man, how can all men,
How can we be like St. Paul,
Like St. John, or like St. Peter,
Like the least of all
Blessed Saints? for we are small.
Love can make us like St. Peter,
Love can make us like St. Paul,
Love can make us like the blessed
Bosom friend of all,
Great St. John, tho’ we are small.
Love which clings and trusts and worships,
Love which rises from a fall,
Love which, prompting glad obedience,
Labours most of all,
Love makes great the great and small.
“As dying, and behold we live!”
So live the Saints while time is flying;
Make all they make, give all they give,
As dying;
Bear all they bear without replying;
They grieve as tho’ they did not grieve,
Uplifting praise with prayer and sighing.
Patient thro’ life’s long-drawn reprieve,
Aloof from strife, at peace from crying,
The morrow to its day they leave,
As dying.
“So great a cloud of Witnesses.”
I think of the saints I have known, and
lift up mine eyes
To the far-away home of beautiful Paradise,
Where the song of saints gives voice to an undividing
sea
On whose plain their feet stand firm while they
keep their jubilee.
As the sound of waters their voice, as the sound
of thunderings,
While they all at once rejoice, while all sing and
while each one sings;
Where more saints flock in, and more, and yet
more, and again yet more,
And not one turns back to depart thro’ the open
entrance-door.
O sights of our lovely earth, O sound of our
earthly sea,
Speak to me of Paradise, of all blessed saints to me:
Or keep silence touching them, and speak to my
heart alone
Of the Saint of saints, the King of kings, the
Lamb on the Throne.
Our Mothers, lovely women pitiful;
Our Sisters, gracious in their life and death;
To us each unforgotten memory saith:
“Learn as we learned in life’s sufficient school,
Work as we worked in patience of our rule,
Walk as we walked, much less by sight than faith,
Hope as we hoped, despite our slips and scathe,
Fearful in joy and confident in dule.”
I know not if they see us or can see;
But if they see us in our painful day,
How looking back to earth from Paradise
Do tears not gather in those loving eyes?—
Ah, happy eyes! whose tears are wiped away
Whether or not you bear to look on me.
Safe where I cannot lie yet,
Safe where I here to lie too,
Safe from the fume and the fret;
You, and you,
Whom I never forget.
Safe from the frost and the snow.
Safe from the storm and sun,
Safe where the seeds wait to grow
One by one
And to come back in blow.
“It is well with the child?”
Lying a-dying.
Have done with vain sighing:
Life not lost tut treasured,
God Almighty pleasured,
God’s daughter fetched and carried,
Christ’s bride betrothed and married.
Our tender little dove
Meek-eyed and simple,
Our love goes home to Love:
There shall she walk in white,
Where God shall be the Light,
And God the Temple.
Dear Angels and dear disembodied Saints
Unseen around us, worshipping in rest,
May wonder that man’s heart so often faints
And his steps lag along the heavenly quest,
What while his foolish fancy moulds and paints
A fonder hope than all they prove for best;
A lying hope which undermines and taints
His soul, as sin and sloth make manifest.
Sloth, and a lie, and sin: shall these suffice
The unfathomable heart of craving man,
That heart which being a deep calls to the deep?
Behold how many like us rose and ran
When Christ, life-giver, roused them from their sleep
To rise and run and rest in Paradise!
“To every seed his own body.”
Bone to his bone, grain to his grain of dust:
A numberless reunion shall make whole
Each blessed body for its blessed soul,
Refashioning the aspects of the just.
Each saint who died must live afresh, and must
Ascend resplendent in the aureole
Of his own proper glory to his goal,
As seeds their proper bodies all upthrust.
Each with his own not with another’s grace,
Each with his own not with another’s heart,
Each with his own not with another’s face,
Each dove-like soul mounts to his proper place:—
O faces unforgotten! if to part
Wrung sore, what will it be to re-embrace?
“What good shall my life do me?”