And hath washed us from our sins in His own blood, . . . to Him be glory and dominion forever and
ever."

LOVED me there needs indeed a voice from heaven,
Fraught with some message of supernal potence,
To teach me, holy Father, that Thou lovest me;
For or nothing else would win me to believe it!

We love on earth-but then we love the thing
That in itself is lovely, or can pay
With kindred warmth the waste of our affection;
Or that which, by some sweet assimilation,
Can work us pleasure or requite our love.
But why, Eternal Father, Lord of heaven,
Maker of earth and of ten thousand worlds,
Ten thousand times more spacious than the earth!
Being without beginning, without end!
Sufficient to Thyself-beyond the reach
Of things create, to pleasure or to pain Thee!
Before whose spotless purity the hosts
Of most immaculate angels are not pure;-
Omnipotent, who see'st in all that is,
No more but the poor nothings Thou hast made,
And couldst unmake, if so it were Thy pleasure!
My spirit shrinks in wonder while I ask,
Eternal Father, Why shouldst Thou love me ?
The thing Thou mad'st, but not what Thou hadst made it;
More hateful to Thee than the meanest worm,
Because the worm is innocent and true-
Less grateful to Thee than the flower to me,
Because I rendered hatred for Thy love!

Thy child ? Thou call'st me so-but I had wiped
As a foul stain Thine impress from my brow,
And should have blushed that men had seen it there!
Thy willing servant ? No, not even that !
For I betook me to another lord,
And Thou in anger didst refuse my service.
Thy slave ? I should have been, but e'en the slave
Who serves unwillingly the lord he chose not
Has oftentimes been faithful, has been grateful.
What was I to Thee, then? Alas! Thy foe!
Friend of Thy foes, and leagued to do Thee scorn.
I knew Thy pleasure, but I did it not!
I felt Thy excellence, but could not love it.