28
SAINTS ROUND THE ALTAR
Oh, they throng, the countless Hallows, round the altar where He lies,
Whom we see by Faith's high vision, Whom they see with open eyes.
These, the glorious Saints of Jesus, women and men who held on high
Fast the standard of the Lamb through all their sharpest agony.
These, the lovely Saints of Jesus, women and men whose lives confest
Through the good of God's bestowing the perfection of His best.
These, the darling baby Hallows, crowned with golden crowns that press
No whit heavier than the daisy wreaths of childly happiness.
Oh, the whiteness of their raiment, raiment washed in priceless Blood!
Oh, the brightness of their faces, blest in Love's beatitude!
Saints of Jesus, Saints of Jesus, who your blest reward have won,
At His altar we are kneeling, in your sweet communion.
We the erring, we the feeble, we by storm-winds tossed and driven,
We the conquered in the battles where so faintly we had striven.
We with sordid spirit meanly who look down and thus deny
To our eyes the unuttered grandeur of God's generosity.
We who grovel, seeking, searching—we, the children of the King—
Soiled possessions, worthless havings, with a muckrake gathering.
Pray for us, O happy Hallows, ye who bring to this high place
Honour folded in His honour, grace reflexion of His grace.
Pray for us all weak and needing, yet who say in faith serene,
This your Monarch is our Brother, and our Mother is your Queen!
