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The City of God
How strange the thought, that in the very lightOf God's own city we may walking be;
That holy city, where there is no night,
Nor yet the light, nor those about us see!
Its music, too, may fall upon the ear,
Celestial strains from the angelic choirs;
No soul-entrancing melody we hear,
For naught divine the heavenly strain inspires.
Without a warning, save a voice from heaven,
The holy city doth to earth descend;
To all alike its light is freely given,
And men and angels do their voices blend;
But oft, alas, within its streets we tread,
Nor know that to its scenes our souls are dead!
Poem No. 202; c. 5 June 1869
| Jones Very : The Complete Poems | |