[This near-at-hand land breeds pain by measure]
This near-at-hand land breeds pain by measure:
That far-away land overflows with treasure
Of heaped-up good pleasure.
Our land that we see is befouled by evil:
The land that we see not makes mirth and revel,
Far from death and devil.
This land hath for music sobbing and sighing:
That land hath soft speech and sweet soft replying
Of all loves undying.
This land hath for pastime errors and follies:
That land hath unending unflagging solace
Of full-chanted “Holies.”
Up and away, call the Angels to us;
Come to our home where no foes pursue us,
And no tears bedew us;
Where that which riseth sets again never,
Where that which springeth flows in a river
For ever and ever;
Where harvest justifies labour of sowing,
Where that which budded comes to the blowing
Sweet beyond your knowing.
Come and laugh with us, sing in our singing;
Come, yearn no more, but rest in your clinging.
See what we are bringing;
Crowns like our own crowns, robes for your wearing;
For love of you we kiss them in bearing,
All good with you sharing:
Over you gladdening, in you delighting;
Come from your famine, your failure, your fighting;
Come to full wrong-righting.
Come, where all balm is garnered to ease you;
Come, where all beauty is spread out to please you;
Come, gaze upon Jesu.
