  SOFT fall the Holy Oils, their drip Peaceful as Jesus sleeping on the ship. Our eyes, so restless and so full of grip, Reflecting as the sea, Give up their range and their possession, free As if to sleep—the sleep of Deity. Upon the ears a lull that dowers With gentleness of bees in laurel-flowers; So that it gives to Quiet breeding powers, A future wrought of gold, When we shall hear what never hath been told, And fathom sound it takes all heaven to hold. Oh, softness on the nostrils, where they strained After their airy lusts till they attained; Now, by the Cross of balm so softly reined, They wait to breathe for breath The vigour of their God, as a shell saith, Left on the beach, “The brine will wake my death.” The lips receive no coal of fire To urge their fervent crying should not tire; A tender Cross gives check to such desire, And bids them wait their song, Till they are far from peril and among The consonant and ever-praising throng. The hands, the feet ... O Jesus, all Marked with Thy Cross, but as a dream may fall In mercy on a mind great woes appal— A healing shade, A priestly grace, so soft the Cross is made, Embracing, by the nails we are not frayed. Crosses as flowers on every sense Fall, rest on them in heavenly suspense; And then we know the holy, the immense Delight of what shall be. When, sanctified and calm for joyance, we Shall have of God our bodies deathlessly. |
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